Two or three steps in the wood, at the mossed roots of a beech, he fell kneeling, muttering, exclaiming.

The tempest of penitence closed with a blind look at his watch, which he left dangling.  He had to talk to drug his thoughts.

‘And mind you,’ said he, when he had rejoined Dacier and was pushing his arm again, rounding beneath the trees to a view of the house, ’for a man steeped in damnable iniquity!  She bears it all for me, because I begged her, for the chance of her living.  It’s my doing—­this knife!  Macpherson swears there is a chance.  Thomson backs him.  But they’re at her, cutting! . . .  The pain must be awful—­the mere pain!  The gentlest creature ever drew breath!  And women fear blood—­and her own!  And a head!  She ought to have married the best man alive, not a—!  I can’t remember her once complaining of me—­not once.  A common donkey compared to her!  All I can do is to pray.  And she knows the beast I am, and has forgiven me.  There isn’t a blessed text of Scripture that doesn’t cry out in praise of her.  And they cut and hack . . . !’ He dropped his head.  The vehement big man heaved, shuddering.  His lips worked fast.

‘She is not alone with them, unsupported?’ said Dacier.

Sir Lukin moaned for relief.  He caught his watch swinging and stared at it.  ’What a good fellow you were to come!  Now ’s the time to know your friends.  There’s Diana Warwick, true as steel.  Redworth came on her tiptoe for the Continent; he had only to mention . . .  Emmy wanted to spare her.  She would not have sent—­wanted to spare her the sight.  I offered to stand by . . .  Chased me out.  Diana Warwick’s there:—­worth fifty of me!  Dacier, I’ve had my sword-blade tried by Indian horsemen, and I know what true as steel means.  She’s there.  And I know she shrinks from the sight of blood.  My oath on it, she won’t quiver a muscle!  Next to my wife, you may take my word for it, Dacier, Diana Warwick is the pick of living women.  I could prove it.  They go together.  I could prove it over and over.  She ’s the loyallest woman anywhere.  Her one error was that marriage of hers, and how she ever pitched herself into it, none of us can guess.’  After a while, he said:  ‘Look at your watch.’

‘Nearly twenty minutes gone.’

‘Are they afraid to send out word?  It’s that window!’ He covered his eyes, and muttered, sighed.  He became abruptly composed in appearance.  ’The worst of a black sheep like me is, I’m such an infernal sinner, that Providence! . . .  But both surgeons gave me their word of honour that there was a chance.  A chance!  But it’s the end of me if Emmy . . . .  Good God! no! the knife’s enough; don’t let her be killed!  It would be murder.  Here am I talking!  I ought to be praying.  I should have sent for the parson to help me; I can’t get the proper words—­bellow like a rascal trooper strung up for the cat.  It must be twenty-five minutes now.  Who’s alive now!’