“Not told you all—­” he repeated.

“How did he die?”

“I think—­I fear he shot himself, but of course it may have been the purest accident—­”

“It was not an accident—­” she cried with a sob.  “Oh, don’t mind what I am saying!” she added quickly, seeing the look of astonishment on the colonel’s face.

“Mrs. Langham may come up if she wishes!” called Doctor Taylor, speaking from the head of the stairs.

Evelyn moved down the hall and paused.

“Does Marsh know?” she asked of the colonel.

“Yes, unfortunately we carried him into his father’s room,” explained Harbison.

Evelyn went slowly up the stairs.  The horror of the situation was beyond words.  As she entered the room where Marshall lay, Watt Harbison and the doctor silently withdrew into the hall, closing the door after them; but Langham gave no immediate sign that he was aware of his wife’s presence.

“Marsh?” she said softly.

His palpable weakness and his cut and bruised face gave her an instinctive feeling of tenderness for him.  At the sound of her voice Langham’s heavy lids slid back and he gazed up at her.

“Have they told you?” he asked in an eager whisper.

“Yes,” she said, and there was a little space of time when neither spoke.

She drew a chair to his bedside and seated herself.  In the next room she could hear Doctor Taylor moving about and now and then an indistinct word when he spoke with Watt Harbison.  She imagined the offices they were performing for the dead man.  Then a door was softly closed and she heard footsteps as they passed out into the hall.

Evelyn kept her place at the bedside without even altering the position she had first taken, while her glance never for an instant left the haggard face on the pillow.  Beyond the open windows the silver light had faded from the sky.  At intervals a chill wind rustled the long curtains.  This, and her husband’s labored breathing were the only sounds in the leaden silence that followed the departure of the two men from the adjoining room.  She was conscious of a dreary sense of detachment from all the world, the little circle of which she had been the center seemed to contract until it held only herself.  Suddenly Langham turned uneasily on his pillow and glanced toward the window.

“What time is it?” he asked abruptly.

“It must be nearly day,” said Evelyn.  “How do you feel now, Marsh?  Do you suffer?”

He shook his head.  His eyes were turned toward the window.

“What day is this?” he asked after a brief silence.

“What day?” repeated Evelyn.

“Yes—­the day of the week, I mean?”

“It’s Friday.”

“They are going to hang John North this morning!” he said, and he regarded her from under his half-closed lids.  “I wonder what he is thinking of now?” he added.

“Would the governor do nothing?” she asked in a whisper.