Slowly, mechanically almost, she dragged herself to the entrance, and stood clinging to the canvas there. By the time she had reached it, Broomhurst had flung himself from the saddle, and had thrown the reins to one of the men.
Mrs. Drayton stared at him with wide bright eyes as he hastened towards her.
"I thought you—you are not—" she began, and then her teeth began to chatter. "I am so cold!" she said, in a little weak voice.
Broomhurst took her hand, and led her over the threshold back into the tent.
"Don't be so frightened," he implored; "I came to tell you first. I thought it wouldn't frighten you so much as—-Your—-Drayton is—-very ill. They are bringing him. I—-"
He paused. She gazed at him a moment with parted lips, then she broke into a horrible discordant laugh, and stood clinging to the back of a chair.
Broomhurst started back.
"Do you understand what I mean?" he whispered. "Kathleen, for God's sake—don't—he is dead."
He looked over his shoulder as he spoke, her shrill laughter ringing in his ears. The white glare and dazzle of the plain stretched before him, framed by the entrance to the tent; far off, against the horizon, there were moving black specks, which he knew to be the returning servants with their still burden.
They were bringing John Drayton home.
