The iron rod crashed down upon his head.
His legs crumpled up; he dropped in a heap at the top of the steps
and rolled heavily to the bottom, sprawling out on the snow-covered
brick walk.
The long night wore on. Windom had carried his daughter into the
sitting-room, where he placed her on a lounge drawn up before the
fire. She had fainted. After an hour he left her and went out into
the night. The body of Edward Crown was lying where it had fallen.
It was covered by a thin blanket of snow. For a long time he stood
gazing down upon the lifeless shape. The snow cut his face, the
wind threshed about his coatless figure, but he heeded them not. He
was muttering to himself. At last he turned to re-enter the house.
His daughter was standing in the open doorway.
"Is--is that Edward down there?" she asked, in weak, lifeless tones.
She seemed dull, witless, utterly without realization.
"Go back in the house," he whispered, as he drew back from her in
a sort of horror,--horror that had not struck him in the presence
of the dead.
"Is that Edward?" she insisted, her voice rising to a queer,
monotonous wail.
"I told you to stay in the house," he said. "I told you I would look
after him, didn't I? Go back, Alix,--that's a good girl. Your--your
daddy will--Oh, my God! Don't look at me like that!"
"Is he dead?" she whispered, still standing very straight in
the middle of the doorway.
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