For some time we heard only the quick, stormy sobs, and the kisses
showering down; then came the piteous, heart-broken wail that called
upon her husband's name; and then the great gush of tears that saved
her. After that there was a murmur, often broken off but always
renewed: we both bowed our heads reverently, for we knew the widow was
praying.
She came forth at length, her head buried in her hands; but she could
walk to her room unassisted, and allowed them to undress her there,
without a word but thanks. Before long nature would have her way, and
she was sleeping quietly.
While we were waiting the return of the men who had gone out in pursuit,
Livingstone went alone into the death-chamber. He staid there some
minutes. When he came out his face was paler than ever, and there was a
sort of horror in his eyes.
He took my arm and led me into the room without speaking. "Do you see
that?" he asked, lifting the hair gently that fell over the left check
of the corpse.
Distinctly and lividly marked on the waxen flesh were the five fingers
of a man's _open hand_.
"Do you think that was a brigand's work?" he went on, his gripe
tightening till I could scarcely bear the pain.
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