Drummond, who had been about to speak, refrained. The door leading to the front of the house was stealthily opening. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. “Perhaps you will not object to answering one for me. The face of the man who lay there was clearly visible. But at this, he halted, turning his frowning gaze back on her. . ’ Saling coughed. Knives were worse, especially when you were stabbed back and left traces of your own blood at the crime scene. I dare not reflect upon the effect that her son's fate,—if the efforts to save him are ineffectual,—may have upon her enfeebled frame, and still worse upon her mind.
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