Turning round, as though to look at the troop, I rested my hand on my horse’s back—­just behind the saddle—­and pressed hard.  He lashed out with both hoofs and Sergeant Burker dropped—­and never moved again.

The base of his skull was smashed like an egg, and his back was broken like a dry stick....

The terrible accident roused wide sympathy with the unfortunate man, the local reporter used all his adjectives, and a military funeral was given to the soldier who had died in the execution of his duty.

On reaching home, after satisfying myself at the Station Hospital that the man was dead, I said to my poor, pale and red-eyed wife:—­

“Dolores, Sergeant Burker met with an accident this morning on parade.  He is dead.  Let us never refer to him again.”

She fainted.

I spent that night also in meditation, questioning myself and examining my soul—­with every honest endeavour to be not a self-deceiver.

I came to the conclusion that I had acted rightly and in the only way in which a gentleman could act.  I had snatched Dolores from his foul clutches, I had punished him without depriving Dolores of my protection, and I had avenged the stain on my honour.

“You have committed a treacherous cowardly murder,” whispered the Fiend in my ear.

“You are a liar,” I replied.  “I did not fear the man and I took this course solely on account of Dolores.  I was strong enough to accept this position—­and to risk the accusation of murder, from my conscience, from the Devil, or from man.”

Any doubt I might otherwise have had was forestalled and inhibited by the obvious Fate that placed Burker in the one spot favourable to my scheme of punishment.

God had willed it?

God had not prevented it.

Surely God was consenting unto it....

And Dolores?  I would forgive her and offer her the choice of remaining with me or leaving me and receiving a half of my income and possessions—­both alternatives being contingent upon good conduct.

At dawn I prepared tea for her, and entered our bedroom.  Dolores had wound a towel round her neck, twisted the ends tightly—­and suffocated herself.

She had been dead for hours....

At the police inquiry, held the same day, I duly lied as to the virtues of the “deceased,” and the utter impossibility of assigning any reason for the rash and deplorable act.  The usual smug stereotyped verdict was pronounced, and, in addition to expressing their belief that the suicide was committed “while of unsound mind,” the officials expressed much sympathy with the bereaved husband.

Dolores was buried that evening and I returned to an empty house.

I believe opinion had been divided as to whether I was callous or “stunned”—­but the sight of her little shoes caused pains in my throat and eyes.  Had Burker been then alive I would have killed him with my hands—­and teeth.  Yes, teeth.