The flame was steady--steady and pitilessly unstirred, even when
it was adjusted close to mouth and nostril; the head was raised up by one
of Dixon's stalwart arms, while he held the candle in the other hand.
Ellinor fancied that there was some trembling on Dixon's part, and
grasped his wrist tightly in order to give it the requisite motionless
firmness.
All in vain. The head was placed again on the cushions, the servant rose
and stood by his master, looked sadly on the dead man, whom, living, none
of them had liked or cared for, and Ellinor sat on, quiet and tearless,
as one in a trance.
"How was it, father?" at length she asked.
He would fain have had her ignorant of all, but so questioned by her
lips, so adjured by her eyes in the very presence of death, he could not
choose but speak the truth; he spoke it in convulsive gasps, each
sentence an effort:
"He taunted me--he was insolent, beyond my patience--I could not bear it.
I struck him--I can't tell how it was. He must have hit his head in
falling. Oh, my God! one little hour a go I was innocent of this man's
blood!" He covered his face with his hands.
Ellinor took the candle again; kneeling behind Mr. Dunster's head, she
tried the futile experiment once more.
"Could not a doctor do some good?" she asked of Dixon, in a hopeless
voice.
"No!" said he, shaking his head, and looking with a sidelong glance at
his master, who seemed to shrivel up and to shrink away at the bare
suggestion.
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