I have no more to say."
In the happier days of her life, Magdalen would have passed over the
narrative of the execution, and the printed confession which accompanied
it unread; the subject would have failed to attract her. She read the
horrible story now--read it with an interest unintelligible to herself.
Her attention, which had wandered over higher and better things,
followed every sentence of the murderer's hideously direct confession
from beginning to end. If the man or the woman had been known to her,
if the place had been familiar to her memory, she could hardly have
followed the narrative more closely, or have felt a more distinct
impression of it left on her mind. She laid down the paper, wondering at
herself; she took it up once more, and tried to read some other portion
of the contents. The effort was useless; her attention wandered again.
She threw the paper away, and went out into the garden. The night
was dark; the stars were few and faint. She could just see the
gravel-walk--she could just pace backward and forward between the house
door and the gate.
The confession in the newspaper had taken a fearful hold on her mind. As
she paced the walk, the black night opened over the sea, and showed her
the murderer in the field hurling the Spud of the plow into the air.
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