Kneebone's 346 XIV. . Suddenly he stopped short. ’ For the moment I thought it was a telegram from Gwen. “I don’t think I CAN do that,” she said. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. The wedding procession passed on, and the cynical rabble poured in behind. She was not afraid exactly, but there was that about her loneliness to-night she distrusted. So appalling was the sight, that even the murderers—familiar as they were with scenes of slaughter,—looked aghast at it.
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