“I said,” he murmured, “that nothing more would happen. There wanted only the last--the fatal blow.” “We were constrained to go on until the truth came to us. It has come to us. After all these years--from the memory of the old man who scared the birds: from the innocent man who was tried--he spoke from the grave: from the murdered man himself. Leonard, this thing should be marvellous in our eyes, for this is not man’s handiwork.” He drew away his hands. “No. It is Vengeance for the spilling of blood.” She made no reply, but she rose, dashed the tears from her eyes, placed the papers in the book, closed it, tied it up again neatly with tape, and laid the parcel in the lowest drawer of the table. “Let it lie there,” she said. “To-morrow, if this Possession is past, as I think it will be, we will burn it, papers and all.” He looked on, saying nothing. What could he say? “What are we to do with our knowledge?” he asked after a few minutes. “Nothing. It is between you and me. Nothing. Let us nevermore speak of the thing. It is between you and me.” The unaccustomed tears blinded her eyes. Her eyes were filled with a real womanly pity. The student of books was gone, the woman of Nature stood in her place; and, woman-like, she wept over the shame and horror of the man. “Leave me, Constance,” he said. “There is blood between us. My hands and those of all my house are red with blood--the blood of your own people.” She obeyed. She turned away; she came back again. “Leonard,” she said, “the past is past. Courage! We have learned the truth before that unhappy man dies. It is a sign. The day of Forgiveness draws nigh.” Then she left him softly. CHAPTER XIX THE SIGNS OF CHANGE