Then suddenly footsteps, and in the open door one of her Highlanders with blood on his face.
“He has a knife in his pocket—he is fighting for his life like a devil.” The man put his hand to his bleeding forehead.
“What do you want?” she asked in a quick horror, yet resolute still.
Her fingers go to her cravat; she loosens it and flings it through the door; it is all she has—why does he fight—she thought he was unarmed, she wanted this to be swift and sudden.
The Highlander catches the twist of lace and is gone.
She stands there staring across the heath, upright in the coach door.
All her senses are quickened; she fancies that she can see even through the darkness, one man struggling with two, defending himself with a clasp-knife—she sees them slip a lace scarf over his head, tighten it round his throat—she sees blood—scarlet as flame, before her eyes and shakes her hands as if she felt it running from them; then she looks at the peaceful, tired, white horses standing with drooping heads in the circle of misty lantern-light; she sees the patches of wet lying on the clay under their hoofs; the bare thorn-tree behind them, the dim hurrying clouds above and the whole scene is impressed on her as something strange and terrible, every little detail to the slender line of the whip on the empty coachman’s seat stands out clearly, never to be forgotten while she shall live.
Up out of the black mystery of the heath come her two Highlanders.
They answer her that it is done; they are in no way moved; they have been sent on fiercer deeds even than this in the Highlands; one is twisting a rag round his hand.
She takes up the sword from the floor; it feels strange and heavy in her hands.
“Put that beside him—drawn—as if he died fighting—highwaymen are common here.”
She gives it to them; then picks up her gray fur and puts it about her shoulders.
“Empty his pockets,” she calls after them, and even as she speaks she looks into the corner of the coach as if she saw him there, staring at her.
The rain ceases, and the chill, creeping wind blows stronger, ruffles her hair and the manes of the white horses.
They come back, her silent Highlanders; they lay on the floor of the coach the contents of his pockets; some money, not much; a handkerchief, a watch with the face shivered; a little book with a worn blue velvet cover, some papers tied with a ribbon.