He never knew how long afterward it was that he heard a voice speaking to him. The words, jumbled and unintelligible, seemed to come from a great distance. He attempted to rise, gave it up, and fell back dizzily. His vision was slow in clearing. What he finally saw, through blurred, uncertain eyes, was the face of Kenneth Gwynne, far above him,--and it was a long time before it stopped whirling and became fixed in one place. Then he realized that it was the voice of Gwynne that was speaking to him, and he made out the words. Something warm and wet crept along the sides of his mouth, over his chin, down his neck. His throat was full of a hot nauseous fluid. He raised himself on one elbow and spat. "Get up! Get up, you filthy whelp! I'm not going to hit you again. Get up, I say!" He struggled to his knees and then to his feet, sagging limply against the fence, to which he clung for support. He felt for his nose, filled with a horrid, sickening dread that it was no longer on his face. "I ought to kill you," he heard Gwynne saying. "You black-hearted, lying scoundrel. Get out of my sight!" He succeeded in straightening up and looked about him through a mist of tears. He tried to speak, but could only wheeze and sputter. He cleared his throat raucously and spat again. "Where--where is she?" he managed to say at last. "Shut up! You've dealt her the foulest--" He broke off abruptly, struck by the other's expression: Lapelle was staring past him in the direction of the house and there was the look of a frightened, trapped animal in his glassy eyes. "My God!" fell from his lips, and then suddenly he sprang forward, placing Kenneth's body between him and the object of his terror. "Stop her! For God's sake, Gwynne,--stop her!" For the first time since Barry went crashing to earth and lay as one dead, Gwynne raised his eyes from the blood-smeared face. Vaguely he remembered the swift rush of Viola's feet as she sped past him,--but that was long ago and he had not looked to see whither she fled. She was now coming down the steps of the porch, a half-raised rifle in her hands. He was never to forget her white, set face, nor the menacing look in her eyes as she advanced to the killing of Barry Lapelle,--for there was no mistaking her purpose. "Drop down!" he shouted to Lapelle. As Barry sank cowering behind him, he cried out sharply to the girl: "Viola! Drop that gun! Do you hear me? Good God, have you lost your senses?" She came on slowly, her head a little to one side the better to see the partially obscured figure of the crouching man. "It won't do you any good to hide, Barry," she said, in a voice that neither of the men recognized. "Don't be a fool, Viola!" cried Kenneth. "Leave him to me. Go back to the house. I will attend to him." She stopped and lifted her eyes to stare at the speaker in sheer wonder and astonishment. "Why,--you heard what he said. You heard what he called my mother. Stand away from him, Kenneth."