"He was muddy. I covered him up and stood waiting in silence, catching
a painfully gasped word now and then. They were no longer in his own
language. The fever had left him, taking with it the heat of life. And
with his panting breast and lustrous eyes he reminded me again of a wild
creature under the net; of a bird caught in a snare. She had left him.
She had left him--sick--helpless--thirsty. The spear of the hunter had
entered his very soul. 'Why?' he cried in the penetrating and indignant
voice of a man calling to a responsible Maker. A gust of wind and a
swish of rain answered.

"And as I turned away to shut the door he pronounced the word
'Merciful!' and expired.

"Eventually I certified heart-failure as the immediate cause of death.
His heart must have indeed failed him, or else he might have stood this
night of storm and exposure, too. I closed his eyes and drove away.
Not very far from the cottage I met Foster walking sturdily between the
dripping hedges with his collie at his heels.

"'Do you know where your daughter is?' I asked.

"'Don't I!' he cried. 'I am going to talk to him a bit. Frightening a
poor woman like this.'

"'He won't frighten her any more,' I said. 'He is dead.'

"He struck with his stick at the mud.

"'And there's the child.'