There was nothing shocking in its appearance now.  All the traces of murder had been washed away, and they had arranged the silky chestnut hair till it concealed the wound, and fell in smooth waves over the white forehead.  That sweet calm which will sometimes descend on the face of the dead, even when their end has been violent—­the sad Alpen-gluth that comes only when the sun has set—­was there in all its beauty.  Save that the features were somewhat sharper than in life, there was nothing to mar their pure classical outline.  It was well, indeed, that Guy held her back two hours ago.  If Isabel had looked on them then, I believe she would have gone mad with terror, if not with sorrow.  It matters much, the expression of a face, when it is sure to mingle in our dreams for many after years.

Guy led her up to the bedside, and left the room as she sank down on her knees.  He remained outside the closed door, for he thought she might need help if her strength failed suddenly; and I joined him there.

For some time we heard only the quick, stormy sobs, and the kisses showering down; then came the piteous, heart-broken wail that called upon her husband’s name; and then the great gush of tears that saved her.  After that there was a murmur, often broken off but always renewed:  we both bowed our heads reverently, for we knew the widow was praying.

She came forth at length, her head buried in her hands; but she could walk to her room unassisted, and allowed them to undress her there, without a word but thanks.  Before long nature would have her way, and she was sleeping quietly.

While we were waiting the return of the men who had gone out in pursuit, Livingstone went alone into the death-chamber.  He staid there some minutes.  When he came out his face was paler than ever, and there was a sort of horror in his eyes.

He took my arm and led me into the room without speaking.  “Do you see that?” he asked, lifting the hair gently that fell over the left check of the corpse.

Distinctly and lividly marked on the waxen flesh were the five fingers of a man’s open hand.

“Do you think that was a brigand’s work?” he went on, his gripe tightening till I could scarcely bear the pain.  “They always strike with a weapon or with the clenched fist.  Shall I tell you whose mark that is?  Bruce’s.  If he did not murder him himself, he struck him after he was dead.”

“Impossible,” I said; “how could he?  He has never—­”

Livingstone cast my arm loose somewhat impatiently.  “We shall know all some day,” he growled, his whole face black with passion.  “I am convinced of it.  If he’s on earth I’ll find him; and when I do, if I show him mercy or let him go—­” The imprecation that followed was not less solemn and terrible because it was muttered to his own heart.

“We must never let Isabel guess the truth,” he said, when he became calmer.  “It would be worse than all.  She would always think she had caused this, and she has enough to bear up against already.  God help her!”