But she could not turn her eyes away or close them.
Lorry stood straight as a young sycamore for an instant, turned toward Estelle.

"Good-by--my love!" he said softly, and fell, face downward, with his hands clasping the edge of her dress.
And Estelle-- She made no sound.

Like a ghost, she knelt and took Lorry's head in her lap; with one hand against each of his cheeks she turned his head.
"Lorry! Lorry!" she murmured in a heartbreaking voice that carried far through the stillness.
Arden put the revolver back in his pocket, seized her by the shoulder.

"Come away from that!" he ordered roughly, and half-lifted her to her feet.
With a cry so awful that Adelaide swayed and almost swooned at hearing it, Estelle wrenched herself free, flung herself on her lover's body, buried her fingers in his hair, covered his dead face with kisses, bathed her lips in the blood that welled from his heart.

Shouts and heavy, quick tramping from many directions--the tempest of murder was drawing people to its center as a cyclone sucks in leaves.