"She is dead," he said, with absolute finality in his voice.
"When did she die?" He stood staring straight ahead of him at the
wall, ghastly with fright.

"No! no! She is not dead; she is well. Quite well; oh, very well.
Go, David, my dear boy--oh, my _dear_ boy! Go to Mr.
Ferguson. He will tell you. But it is--terrible, David."

He went, dazed, and saying, "Why, but what is it? If she is not--
not--"

Robert Ferguson met him on the threshold of the library, drew him
in, closed the door, and looked him full in the face. "No, she
isn't dead," he said; "I wish to God she were." Then he struck
him hard on the shoulder. "David," he said harshly, "be a man;
they've played a damned dirty trick on you. Yesterday she married
Blair Maitland.... Take it like a man, and be thankful you are
rid of her." He wheeled about and stood with his back to his
niece's lover. He had guided the inevitable sword, but he could
not witness the agony of the wound. There was complete stillness
in the room; the ticking of the clock suddenly hammered in Robert
Ferguson's ears; a cinder fell softly from the grate. Then he
heard a long-drawn breath:

"Tell me, if you please, exactly what has happened."

Elizabeth's uncle, still with his back turned, told him what
little he knew. "I don't know where they are," he ended; "I don't
want to know. The scoundrel wrote to Nannie, but he gave no
address. Elizabeth's letter to me is on my table; read it."