"I don't know," he replied. "I don't remember anything about it.
We were hours late, I think."

The woman was looking down at the unconscious man. Gerald rose
slowly to his feet and stood by her side. The face of Mr. John P.
Dunster, even in unconsciousness, had something in it of strength
and purpose. The shape of his head, the squareness of his jaws,
the straightness of his thick lips, all seemed to speak of a hard
and inflexible disposition. His hair was coal black, coarse, and
without the slightest sprinkling of grey. He had the neck and
throat of a fighter. But for that single, livid, blue mark across
his forehead, he carried with him no signs of his accident. He was
a little inclined to be stout. There was a heavy gold chain
stretched across his waist-coat. From where he lay, the shining
handle of his revolver protruded from his hip, pocket.

"Sakes alive!" the woman muttered, as she looked down. "What does
he carry a thing like that for--in a peaceful country, too!"

"It was just an idea of his," Gerald answered. "We were going
abroad in a day or two. He was always nervous. If you like, I'll
take it away."

He stooped down and withdrew it from the unconscious man's pocket.
He started as he discovered that it was loaded in every chamber.

"I can't bear the sight of them things," the woman declared. "It's
the men of evil ways, who've no trust in the Lord, who need that
sort of protection."