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by Grant Allen
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His heart misgave him. Once fairly round the corner he fled like a wounded creature, too deeply hurt even to cry. Eustace Le Neve, raising his hat, hastened after him, all mute wonder. For several hundred yards they walked on side by side across the open heathy moor. Then, as they passed the first wall, Tyrrel paused for a moment and spoke. "Not a murderer!" he cried in his anguish; "oh, no, not quite as bad as a murderer, surely, Eustace; but still, a culpable homicide. Oh, God, how terrible." And even as he disappeared across the moor to eastward, Trevennack, far behind, seized his wife's arm spasmodically, and clutching it tight in his iron grip, murmured low in a voice of supreme conviction, "Do you see what that means, Lucy? I can read it all now. It was he who rolled down that cursed stone. It was he who killed our boy. And I can guess who he is. He must be Tyrrel of Penmorgan." Cleer didn't hear the words. She was below, gazing after them.
Fight him down in your own heart, then, dear, Mrs. Trevennack said, gently. "Remember, we all may fall. Lucifer did--and he was once an archangel. Fight him down in your own heart when he suggests hateful thoughts to you. For I know what you felt when it came over you instinctively that that young man had done it. You wanted to fly straight at his throat, dear Michael--you wanted to fly at his throat, and fling him over the precipice."
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