"She is gone!" said the rector, with a shudder. "Heaven have mercy on
her sinful soul!"

The baronet staggered back from the bed.

"I never saw a more horrible sight!" continued the Reverend Cyrus. "I
never heard such horrible words! No wonder it has unmanned you, Sir
Jasper. Pray sit down and drink this."

He held out a glass of water. Sir Jasper seized and drank it, his
brain reeling.

With stoical calm, Zara had arisen and closed the dead woman's eyes,
folded the hands, straightened the stiffening limbs, and composed the
humble covering. She had no tears, she uttered no cry--her face was
stern as stone.

"Better stay in this ghastly place no longer, Sir Jasper," the rector
suggested. "You look completely overcome. I will see that everything
is properly done. We will bury her to-morrow."

As a man walks in a dreadful dream, Sir Jasper arose, quitted the room,
mounted his horse, and rode away.

One dark, menacing glance Zara shot after him; then she sat stonily
down by her dead. All that night, all next day, Zara kept her post,
neither eating, nor drinking, nor sleeping. Dry and tearless, the
burning black eyes fixed themselves on the dead face, and never left it.