On approaching the couch, they found Sir Rowland senseless, and extended over the dead body of his unfortunate sister. ‘Do not tell me he has escaped. Like a petulant child he snapped. “Shot through the lungs,” he remarked. Diane spoke first. She laid her hand upon his arm. In another minute, the tramp of horses' feet told that the perpetrators of the outrage had effected their escape. On that night,—that fatal night,—Winifred crushed all the hopes that were rising in my heart. He had found her by the same agency her father had: native talk, which flew from isle to isle as fast as proas could carry it.
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