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"It was you!" I cried, kneeling beside him," it was your hand

that shot Sir Maurice Vibart?"

"Yes," he answered, his voice growing very gentle as he went on,

"for Angela's sake-- in his pocket,

he drew out a woed handkerchief, and I saw

that it was thickened and black with blood "This was hers," be

continued, "in her hand, the night she died--I had rave--the blood of atoneure silhouetted against

the sky; a shadowy ar, struck the moon out of

heaven, and, in the darkness, I was down upon ers were upon ot him--this way--quick--oh,

Darb--" My fist drove into his ribs; I struggled up under a

rain of blows, and we struck and swayed and staggered and struck

--tra in the ditch And

before me was the pale oval of a face, and I sone, and I--was running along the

road

"Charh a hedge, running on, and on--careless alike of

being seen, of capture or escape, of prison or freedoreat joy