A distressful sigh; the sound of heavy feet unwillingly retreating, feet that hesitate more than once ere they finally die away. And presently the light tread comes on again, slow and unhurried as before. Then Murder, peering from the shadows, crouches low, raises and steadies right hand.... A ringing shot from the denser gloom, a cry of amazement lost in strangling groan.... A second shot, louder, nearer ... a dreadful gasping ... a horrid thrashing among the underbrush ... silence. Then Sir John, staring upon that place of horror, began to creep thither ... was aware that men were running towards him, shouting to one another, and, without looking, knew these for Robert and George Potter, which last bore a small, covered lanthorn. So, together, they entered the little grove, and presently came upon a stilly shape crouched face down among the underbrush; and beholding the three-cornered hat of generous cock, the neat wig, the wide-skirted coat, Mr. Potter whistled softly. “Rackon Sturton’s got it at last!” quoth he. “Aye, but—there’s another over here!” cried the Corporal from the denser shadows. “Aye—another o’ them ... and it looks—it looks like ... bring the light!” Coming where stood the Corporal, Mr. Potter bent down, lanthorn in hand, only to start to his feet again very suddenly. “Lord!” he exclaimed in awestruck voice. “Why, lord, sirs, this ’un be Sturton, sure enough ... aye, an’ sure enough dead.... Rackon ’e won’t never want no more.... But who—who lays over yonder?” They came back to the first still form and, while Sir John held the lanthorn, Potter and the Corporal turned it over and, recoiling, stood mute a while and motionless; for there, scowling up at them in death as he had so often done in life, was the dead face of my Lord Sayle. CHAPTER XLVI TELLS HOW SIR JOHN DERING FLED THE DOWN-COUNTRY The ancient cross was casting its shadow far athwart the silent street, for it was very early and the sun but new-risen, therefore the birds were jubilant, raising a chorus of welcome to the new day; but Sir John, leaning out from his bedchamber window, gazed down at the battered old cross very wistfully and sighed deep and often. To him presently entered Corporal Robert, bearing a valise. “You ordered the chaise for half after four, Bob?” “I did, sir.” “And you ha’ told no one of my proposed departure ... Sir Hector, for instance?” “No, sir.” “Excellent!” murmured Sir John, and sighed immediately. “I mentioned the matter to nobody, sir—except ... Her, your honour.” “Her?” exclaimed Sir John, starting. “’S death, man, she is the very last person—hum! Whom d’ye mean, Bob? What ‘her’?” “The—one and only, sir ... Ann, your honour.” “Ha! And d’you tell her—everything?” “Well—very near, sir.” “And she still loves ye, Bob ... art sure?” “I venter so to believe, sir. She—she tells me so, your honour.” “A good woman’s abiding love,” sighed Sir John, “is a very precious thing to a man o’ sentiment.” “Yes, sir.”