“Accident! She shot me,” he muttered. He was at length rescued from his assailants,— rescued to perish, seven months afterwards, with every ignominy, at the very gibbet to which he had brought his victim. He knew not how to act, urged as he was in two directions. “But how can you?” asked Constance. Inexplicably there flashed into vision the Chinese wedding procession in the narrow, twisted streets of the city, that first day: the gorgeous palanquin, the tomtoms, the weird music, the ribald, jeering mob that trailed along behind. I told him the truth.
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