There, in the green muck and slimy filth, you will tell no tales." She hurried away and struck into a path leading to the stone terrace.
She could see the lanterns flashing like firefly sparks; she could hear the clear voice of Sir Everard Kingsland commanding.

All at once the lights were still, there was a deep exclamation in the baronet's voice, a wild chorus of feminine screams, then blank silence.
Sybilla Silver threw the dagger, with a quick, fierce gesture, into the wood, and sprung in among them with glistening, greedy black eyes.
They stood in a semicircle, in horror-struck silence, on the terrace.
The light of half a dozen lanterns streamed redly on the stone flooring, but redder than that lurid light, a great pool of blood lay gory before them.

The iron railing, painted creamy white, was all clotted with jets of blood, and clinging to a projecting knob, something fluttered in the bleak blast, but they did not see it.

All eyes were riveted on the awful sight before them--every tongue was paralyzed.

Edwards, the valet, was the first to break the dreadful silence.
"My master!" he cried, shrilly; "he will fall!" He dropped his lantern and sprung forward just in time and no more.
The young baronet reeled and fell heavily backward.