Hamilton, his body growing rigid, put out his hand to her forehead;
it was cold. He set down the lamp and turned her face towards it,
putting his arm under her head. Her lips were stone colour, the
lids were closed over the eyes; the face was the face of death.
In those moments Hamilton realized that his own life was over.
Saidie was dead--murdered. The world then was simply no more for
him. All was finished: he himself was a dead man. Only one thing
remained, one duty for him. To avenge her! Then utter rest and
blackness. He looked round thinking. The room was quite empty,
undisturbed. The great pearls on Saidie's neck were untouched. They
gleamed gently in the pale light from his lamp. No robber, no
outsider had been here. Then, in the darkened room, leapt up before
him the truth: a white, blonde face seemed looking at him from the
walls--the thick pale lips, the half-closed sinister eyes, the lean
long figure of his wife rose before him.
"But she was to leave by the morning's boat," he muttered. Then
... a thought struck him. He withdrew his arm gently from the
passive head, lighted another lamp, putting it on a bracket in the
wall, and left the room, descending to the vacant hall. He went to
the verandah and called to his servants. They came, a trembling
crowd, with upraised hands, and fell flat before him, weeping and
striking their heads on the ground.
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