It flashed at once across my mind that this description agreed, in many points, with that of Orlando Jones. I determined, without delay, to hint these suspicions to Captain Blundel, and gave him, in the strictest confidence, an outline of that villain's history. He listened gravely, asked several questions much to the point, and ended by begging me to trust the matter in his hands. We were now at our journey's end, and I begged for some water, and hastily washed my bloodstained hands and cloak, lest they should frighten your uncle. Captain Blundel, meanwhile, saw the body laid in a sheltered place, and appointed two mountaineers to watch by it. But Basil, he afterwards told me, now came forward, and insisted on that duty being left to him; he would take no refusal, and more than once, when Captain Blundel looked in, he found him on his knees at the head of the rude bier, praying devoutly. "No people," added Captain Blundel, "make longer prayers than the Black Mountaineers, nor, I believe, more devout ones." I entered alone the hovel where my husband lay; what a place it was! The floor was unpaved, and positively alive with mice and fleas; the walls were of stones loosely heaped together, and little bright flecks of light peeped through the crevices. Wood smoke curled up from the hearth and so dimmed the air that I could not at once distinguish the dear object of my search. Two women were there, kind though rough nurses; one was baking cakes on the hearth for him, the other was holding to his lips a cup of sour milk. He was propped up against a pile of blankets, and his features looked wan and sunk. He caught sight of me at once, and snatched me to his breast with a vehemence so unlike his calm self that it almost startled me. So did his rapid utterance and feverish rather unconnected questions, ending with, "Where's John? isn't he with you?" "No," I tremblingly answered, neither daring to tell the truth nor to withhold it from him in his critical state. "Then, my dear, where is he?" he rejoined quickly. "He is--he has been called home," I said, not knowing what else to say. "Very extraordinary," I heard him mutter, as he sank back on his pallet, "but they were right; John has no head for business; when did he go home, my dear?" I could not help bursting into tears at this reiterated inquiry; your uncle raised himself on his elbow and gazed in my face, and as he did so, a sudden light seemed to break in upon him. I knew suspense would be torture, and added, "Yes, dear Laurie, he was called home this morning; his death was by a pistol-shot, purely accidental,--no pain, no distress, conscious to the last, and quite satisfied to go; he desired me to give you his love, Laurie; now you know the truth, and you shall hear every particular as soon as you are strong enough to bear it."