Her face was white to the lips, but she looked at him unflinchingly; and without a word he turned and left her. Mrs. Drayton was resting in the tent on Tuesday afternoon. With the help of cushions and some low chairs, she had improvised a couch, on which she lay quietly with her eyes closed. There was a tenseness, however, in her attitude which indicated that sleep was far from her. Her features seemed to have sharpened during the last few days, and there were hollows in her cheeks. She had been very ill for a long time, but all at once, with a sudden movement, she turned her head and buried her face in the cushions with a groan. Slipping from her place, she fell on her knees beside the couch, and put both hands before her mouth to force back the cry that she felt struggling to her lips. For some moments the wild effort she was making for outward calm, which even when she was alone was her first instinct, strained every nerve and blotted out sight and hearing, and it was not till the sound was very near that she was conscious of the ring of horse’s hoofs on the plain. She raised her head sharply, with a thrill of fear, still kneeling, and listened. There was no mistake. The horseman was riding in hot haste, for the thud of the hoofs followed one another swiftly. As Mrs. Drayton listened her white face grew whiter, and she began to tremble. Putting out shaking hands, she raised herself by the arms of the folding-chair and stood upright. Nearer and nearer came the thunder of the approaching sound, mingled with startled exclamations and the noise of trampling feet from the direction of the kitchen tent. Slowly, mechanically almost, she dragged herself to the entrance, and stood clinging to the canvas there. By the time she had reached it Broomhurst had flung himself from the saddle, and had thrown the reins to one of the men. Mrs. Drayton stared at him with wide, bright eyes as he hastened toward her. “I thought you--you are not--” she began, and then her teeth began to chatter. “I am so cold!” she said, in a little, weak voice. Broomhurst took her hand and led her over the threshold back into the tent. “Don’t be so frightened,” he implored; “I came to tell you first. I thought it wouldn’t frighten you so much as--Your--Drayton is--very ill. They are bringing him. I--” He paused. She gazed at him a moment with parted lips; then she broke into a horrible, discordant laugh, and stood clinging to the back of a chair. Broomhurst started back. “Do you understand what I mean?” he whispered. “Kathleen, for God’s sake--_don’t_--he is _dead_.” He looked over his shoulder as he spoke, her shrill laughter ringing in his ears. The white glare and dazzle of the plain stretched before him, framed by the entrance to the tent; far off, against the horizon, there were moving black specks, which he knew to be the returning servants with their still burden. They were bringing John Drayton home.