Cary shook his head, thrust the note back in its place, and, rising with a quivering sigh, walked to the window.  He stood there for some moments, his brow pressed to the pane, then returned to the table and, standing before the Major, spoke with harsh passion “Is marriage, sir, a thing for me to think of now?  No! not even marriage with Unity Dandridge.  To marry now—­to forget with all possible haste—­to lie close and warm and happy and leave him there, cold, alone, and unavenged!  No.  I’ll not do that.  Wedding-bells, even slowly rung, would sound strangely, I think, to his ears.  And as for that murderer, he might say when he heard them, ’Are the dead so soon forgot?  Then up, heart! for this bridegroom will not trouble me.’  Major Churchill, I will live alone at Greenwood until I have proof which will convince a judge and jury that my brother was not the only man who spurred from that ford by the river road!  Lewis Rand may wind and double, but I’ll scotch him yet, there by Indian Run!  I’ll transfix him there, there on that very strand, and call the world to see the man who murdered Ludwell Cary!  When that’s done, I’ll rest, maybe, and think of happiness.”

Major Churchill sat back in the deep old armchair and rested his head upon his hand.  The hand was a trembling hand; the old soldier, grey and stark, with his pinned-up sleeve, looked suddenly a beaten soldier, conquered and fugitive.  The young man saw the shaking hand.  “You need no proof, sir,” he said harshly.  “I know that you know.  You knew there beside the stream, the day we found him.”

“Yes, Fair.”

“And did you not know that I knew?”

“I have not been perfectly certain, but—­yes, I believed you to know.”

“I will not say that, knowing me,—­for until now I have hardly known myself,—­but knowing my father, sir, could you look for another course from his son?  My brother’s blood cries from the ground.  There is no rest and no peace for me until his murderer pays!”

“Yes, Fair.”

“I cannot tell you what my brother was to me.  Brother of the flesh and of the spirit too—­David—­Jonathan.  His friends mine and his enemies mine, his honour mine—­”

“Yes, Fair.  It was so I loved Henry Churchill.”

The young man checked his speech, gazed at his guest a moment in silence, and turned away.  The quiet held in the old room where bygone Carys looked from the walls, but at last the Major spoke with violence.  “Don’t think that I do not hate that man!  Spare him, in himself, one iota of the penalty—­not I!  Cheat justice, see the law futile to protect an outraged people, stay the hangman’s hand—­am I one to will that?  No man can accuse me of a forgiving spirit!  I, too, loved your brother; I, too, believe in the blood debt!  Ask me of this man himself, and I say, ‘Right!  Let him have it to the hilt—­death and shame!’ But—­but—­”

The Major’s voice, high and shaking with passion, broke with a gasp.  He had sat erect to speak, but now he sank back, and with his chin upon his hand looked again mere grey defeat.