“Is she dead?” he asked under his breath. “Have you killed her?”

“Killed her, fool!” I cried. “Have you never seen a woman swoon?”

“She looks like death,” he muttered. “I thought” —

“You thought!” I exclaimed. “You have too many thoughts. Begone, and call for help!”

“Here is Angela,” he said sullenly and without offering to move, as, light of foot, soft of voice, ox-eyed and docile, the black woman entered the room. When I saw her upon her knees beside the motionless figure, the head pillowed on her arm, her hand busy with the fastenings about throat and bosom, her dark face as womanly tender as any English mother’s