Northwest beyond the river the comet flared, its tail upraised like the tail of a horse on fire, and the stars were spattered thick and hot against the pale gray velvet of the night. Hector had not spoken since the constable told him he thought Ella was dead. They had come down off the veranda, climbed into the buggy from opposite sides, and the constable offered no further information or explanation. Now Hector sat with his hands limp in his lap, gazing straight ahead and listening to the rhythmic clip-clop clip-clop of hoofs on the moon-dappled pavement. The sound had that smooth, effortless quality of something in a dream. Indeed, there was something dreamlike about this whole affair. The constable had said he thought she was dead. What did that mean? Was she dead or was she not dead? Or had he said that in an attempt to soften the news, to give him some doubt to cling to until he saw for himself? Or was it all a lie, told to make him docile on the way to jail? These questions came fast, one behind another, but Hector made no attempt to answer them.
