ARMSTRONG’S NEWS.
That moment was one destined to be a fadeless memory in the life of
Talbot Strangemore. In his after years there was no moment in which
he could not by simply shutting his eyes, recall the time and place
and scene--the strange, wierd camping ground beneath the tropical
palm-trees and luxuriant vegetation, the mystic murmur of old Nile
as it flowed between its banks in its grand strength and power, the
hot breath of the Khamsin as it swept across the desert and burned
their faces, and the glorious moonlight that lighted the whole scene
into mystic, solemn splendor with dark shadows here and there cast
fantastically by the stately palms. Blending with the tropical scene
were the eager excited faces of the men, and high over all rose the
voice of John Armstrong as he exclaimed earnestly, and with a note of
strong indignation in his clear, high voice:
“My God, then, man, why do you dally in Egypt, when you are so sorely
needed at home? Do you not know that there is a price set upon your
head?”
A low hum of wonder and execration rose from the group of men. They
believed that they had suddenly discovered another criminal.
But the next words of John Armstrong quickly undeceived them.
“Do not be too hasty, comrades,” he said, looking round at them with a
smile, “You have not unearthed another murderer to-night. It is true
that this man is sadly wanted at home, and that there is a large reward
offered for his apprehension. There are two detectives hunting him all
over Europe, and the papers of Europe and America all contain personals
inquiring for him. But in spite of all this flurry to apprehend him,
this man although he has committed a cruel wrong, has done no sin that
the law can reach with its august lash of justice!”
Strangemore regarded him in a strange dazed silence, while the others
clamorously demanded to know what he had done.
John Armstrong answered with an inflection of scorn in his voice:
“He broke his young wife’s heart by his foolish infatuation for another
woman!”
The man before him bowed his handsome head in bitter remorse and shame.
“You are right,” he murmured, lowly and mournfully. “I am a wretch
whose guilt, while it is beyond the pale of the law, carries with it
its own whip-lash of retribution and remorse. I broke my darling’s
heart by my foolish passion for a vain coquette, and although she died
by her own hand I am as guilty of her death as if I had poured the
poison into her cup and pressed it to her lips with my own hand!”
They saw that he was in terrible earnest, that his heart was crushed
within him by remorse and despair, and their first impulse of scorn and
contempt softened into the gentler emotion of pity. Armstrong said
with decided kindness in his voice:
“I am glad to see that you are genuinely remorseful and repentant over
your fault, Strangemore. But cheer up, man. You may yet be able to
redeem your self from the blight of your thoughtless folly.”
In the moonlight Strangemore lifted his dark, sad eyes, and looked
drearily into Armstrong’s face.
“Redeem myself--and Nina _dead_!” he said, reproachfully.
Armstrong answered, impressively:
“You made a terrible mistake in leaving your home as you did. Your wife
is not _dead_.”
“Not dead!” Strangemore shouted, hoarsely, and there was such a passion
of joy and amazement in his voice that it touched a responsive chord of
gladness in every manly breast.
“Not dead,” John Armstrong answered, gravely, and solemnly. “But
she needs your presence, Talbot Strangemore, for she is in the most
terrible peril at the hands of the law. She is in prison now and
condemned to be hanged on the 25th of July for the murder of her
beautiful rival, Mrs. St. Alban!”