Willcoxen!" she said once more.
But he moved not a muscle.
"Mr. Willcoxen!" she repeated, laying her hand upon his arm.
He looked up. The expression of haggard despair softened out of his
countenance.
"Is it you, my dear?" he said. "What has brought you here, Miriam? Were
you afraid of the storm? There is no danger, dear child--it has nearly
expended its force, and will soon be over--but sit down."
"Oh, no! it is not the storm that has brought me here, though I scarcely
remember a storm so violent at this season of the year, except one--this
night seven years ago--the night that Marian Mayfield was murdered!"
He started--it is true that he had been thinking of the same dread
tragedy--but to hear it suddenly mentioned pierced him like an
unexpected sword thrust.
Miriam proceeded, speaking in a strange, level monotone, as if unwilling
or afraid to trust her voice far:
"I came this evening to restore a small but costly article of _virtu_,
belonging to you, and left in my care some time ago by the boy
Melchisedek. It is an antique dagger--somewhat rusty and spotted. Here
it is."
And she laid the poniard down upon the tress of hair before him.
He sprang up as if it had been a viper--his whole frame shook, and the
perspiration started from his livid forehead.
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