Blinded by the flash and stunned by the report, Brading nevertheless heard, or fancied that he heard, the wild, high scream of the panther, so human in sound, so devilish in suggestion.  Leaping from the bed he hastily clothed himself and, pistol in hand, sprang from the door, meeting two or three men who came running up from the road.  A brief explanation was followed by a cautious search of the house.  The grass was wet with dew; beneath the window it had been trodden and partly leveled for a wide space, from which a devious trail, visible in the light of a lantern, led away into the bushes.  One of the men stumbled and fell upon his hands, which as he rose and rubbed them together were slippery.  On examination they were seen to be red with blood.

An encounter, unarmed, with a wounded panther was not agreeable to their taste; all but Brading turned back.  He, with lantern and pistol, pushed courageously forward into the wood.  Passing through a difficult undergrowth he came into a small opening, and there his courage had its reward, for there he found the body of his victim.  But it was no panther.  What it was is told, even to this day, upon a weather-worn headstone in the village churchyard, and for many years was attested daily at the graveside by the bent figure and sorrow-seamed face of Old Man Marlowe, to whose soul, and to the soul of his strange, unhappy child, peace.  Peace and reparation.