Twice over a pang shot through her, and she felt that the time had come, for there was a rustling sound below, and in imagination she saw the dark opening grow more dark. But the sound died away again, and she knew that it was only a sudden gust of wind sweeping the rain-drops before it. And at last a new horror assailed her. That man--Sturgess, she was sure--had been in the act of climbing to the room and she had fired. Of course she knew all that, but somehow in her excitement--her exaltation of spirit in her defence of all that was dear to her in life--it seemed part of a horrible dream, a something which could not have been true. But it was true! She had fired and heard the cry of agony, the crushing of the thatch, and the heavy fall, and writhing on the stones beneath, followed by that awful silence during which she had waited in expectation for it to be broken by his coming on again. But it had not been broken, and she knew why now. The thought came to her like a revelation--Michael Sturgess was lying there, beneath that window, either grievously wounded or dead. A vertigo seized her, and she nearly dropped the gun. But Dinah's nerves had been too tightly strung to give way now; and once more mastering her weakness, she walked bravely to the window, hesitated and then leaned out, starting back in horror, for she was touched. But it was only the edge of the iron frame of the casement swung to by the wind; and as she leaned out and looked down, she held her breath and listened, expecting to hear some movement--some slight stir. But there below in the dense darkness all was perfectly still; no movement, no hard-drawn breath as of one in agony, but a silence so horrible that she staggered back to throw the gun upon the bed, and press her hand down to try and allay the laboured breathing of her heart. She could bear it no longer. She felt that she must go down and see. Evil as the man was, he might be still alive, and she might save him. If not, she must know whether he was dead, for the suspense was infinitely worse than the knowledge could possibly be. In a state of maddening excitement now, she unfastened the door, and went down the dark stairs, pausing for a brief moment in the kitchen, where a heavy breathing told her that Martha still slept her drugged sleep; and then going to the front door she softly and quickly drew back the bolts, and turned the key, when the door yielded, as she grasped the handle, with a faint cracking sound. Then, nerved by her excitement, she stepped through the porch into the outer darkness, stooping down and peering before her in her endeavour to make out the prostrate body she expected to see lying prone.