TORN BY WOLVES.
In the early dawn of the new day a small, determined band moved out of
the camp in search of the missing man.
In spite of his anxiety to be gone Talbot Strangemore decided not to
leave until he learned the fate of Ferris. Bad and cruel as the man
had shown himself his heart revolted from leaving him to the certain
doom that awaited him if caught by the incensed party who had set forth
in search of him. He therefore joined the company going out, with the
inward determination of rescuing the runaway from violence if he could.
Something of irresistible pity mingled with his thoughts for he knew
that the man must have been a victim to a deadly fear indeed to have
ventured out alone into the Egyptian desert in order to escape his
enemies. The desert was known to be infested with wolves, hyenas, and
lesser beasts of prey. How horrible if he should be attacked by these
creatures alone and unaided.
A vague presentiment of horror crept into his thoughts. He was very
quiet as they moved on mile after mile, and his thoughts were strangely
blended. Past and present mingled with his teeming fancies. While he
tried to think of Nina’s terrible grief and peril now, he found his
thoughts wandering back to the child Nina who had been so fond of him
in his boyish days, and the memory of her childish love smote him with
bitter reproach.
“From first to last she has been fond of me and true to me,” he said to
himself. “And I, how have I deserved the gift of her heart and life?
I have been a traitor to her trust, an incubus, a marplot. But for my
mother’s mistaken kindness the child might have had a life all sunshine
and beauty. She had wealth and honor and many friends. These would have
made her life a dream of happiness but for me--me, who have blighted
and ruined it all, who have darkened her young days with shame and
sorrow, and perhaps a horrible doom. Oh, better for her had she never
seen me!”
Before his mind’s eye came a vision of Nina as he had seen her first on
the day of his home coming to Selwyn Heights with his sore, rebellious
heart.
“What a grey day it was,--grey sky, grey sea, grey hills in the
background. Nothing bright in all the picture except Nina in her
crimson dress, and with her proud, lovely face, and great wistful
dark eyes. Ah, it was a grey day for her, too, poor child. A black
day--black with the shadow of creeping horror! Oh, God forgive me for
the weakness and folly that wrought all her woe!”
He felt like shrieking aloud as he saw in memory the lovely white
figure that had come to him in the drawing room that night, and fancied
that lissom bride-like figure upon the awful black scaffold.
“They shall not murder her, my love, my bride,” he swore, frantically
to himself. “I will snatch her from the arms of the law, aye, from the
arms of death itself, or failing, I will die with her and beside her,
and my death may be some atonement for my fault.”
Oh, the sadness, the madness, of a love felt too late! Talbot
Strangemore knew it all now as he journeyed mechanically on while that
lovely, bride-like figure of Nina kept pace with his dreadful thoughts
of her impending doom.
“Do I hear her sing as of old,
My bird with the shining head,
My own dove with the tender eye?
But there rings on a sudden a passionate cry,
There is some one dying or dead.
And a sudden thunder is rolled:
For a tumult shakes the city
And I wake, my dream is fled;
In the shuddering dawn behold,
Without knowledge, without pity
By the curtains of my bed
That abiding phantom cold.”
Lost in his own thronging thoughts he has unconsciously lagged behind
the others until the murmur of their voices falls but indistinctly on
his ears.
But suddenly he is startled from his dreamy trance of painful thought,
by a loud cry of alarm mingled with unmistakable horror and dismay.
Looking ahead of him he sees that the party of men have come to an
abrupt halt and are huddled around something that seems to be lying in
a heap upon the ground.
Strangemore’s heart gives a quick throb. His fears for Ferris rush over
him with renewed force.
Hastening his footsteps, he seeks the scene, but before he reaches it
the echo of horrified words apprises him that something very terrible
has happened.
“Poor fellow, what a terrible retribution has overtaken him,” one is
saying, as Talbot comes up and pushes his eager way into the group.
Then although his nerves are strong and his heart brave, Talbot
Strangemore reels backward a moment, and a deadly faintness and
sickness comes over him, for the sight upon which his eyes have fallen
is one to chill the stoutest heart.
The earth for yards around is splashed with blood and gore. Two great
fierce looking wolves lie dead in a horrid crimson pool, and close
beside them the body of a man, his blood-spattered garments almost
torn from his form by their horrid fangs. He has fought bravely for
his life as is shown by the gaping wounds of his two vanquished foes,
and by the crimson blade of the long, keen knife lying near to his
hand. But strangest sight of all the dread scene was that in one hand
of the dead man was extended a sheet of paper from his note book,
while a pocket pen lay as if it had fallen from his grasp. With it he
had traced in the crimson fluid formed by his spouting life-blood, a
few lines of incoherent confession. All seemed to shrink from that
blood-written note on which the awful ink was scarcely dry, and one man
kneeling on the wet ground, and bending closely over, read it aloud:
“Torn by wolves--fought vainly for life. This is my last dying
confession. I, Oswald Ferris, killed Sibyl St. Alban. I was crazed by
jealousy, and stabbed her to the heart with a dagger. I placed the
asp in Talbot Strangemore’s bed, too. I wished to kill him because he
suspected me of the murder. I am going fast. But a few more minutes
remain. May God pardon my sinful soul, and guide this confession to
the hands of Talbot Strangemore in time to save his innocent wife
from suffering death on the scaffold for my crime.
“OSWALD FERRIS.”
All present stood rooted to the ground in silent horror gazing at the
bloody victim of the ravening wolves. He seemed almost sacred in their
eyes now, having suffered such awful retribution for his sins.
Presently Harvey Wilson said in low, awed tones:
“The paper belongs to you, Strangemore. Take it.”
So Talbot Strangemore advanced and with an awful shudder took up the
blood written confession that meant deliverance from her awful peril,
life and love and happiness to Nina Strangemore. He said, reverently,
and with bent head:
“My God, I thank thee.”
And a moment later as he ran his eyes over the paper, he added:
“He must have died but a few minutes ago, for the blood is not yet dry
upon the paper. Perhaps life yet lingers. Will not Doctor Lewis see?”
The physician bent down assuming his formal professional air, and made
a brief examination. He started and uttered a cry of surprise.
“His heart beats faintly. He is not dead, but in a terribly death like
swoon.”
When they found that life still lingered they tore their handkerchiefs
into strips and bound up his dreadful wounds. The physician applied
restoratives. So great a sympathy does the sight of suffering stir in
the human breast, that those who had been the most anxious to see him
hanged last night now vied with each other in efforts to restore Oswald
Ferris to life.
And after a while their assiduity was rewarded, for with a long shiver
from head to foot he opened his eyes and gazed around him. When he saw
them all gazing at him with kind, anxious eyes, he was amazed.
“I thought I had died,” he said, in a weak voice. “But how came you all
here?”
In the face of the actual pity and sympathy with which they now
regarded him it was rather embarrassing to own the truth, but there was
nothing else to do, really, and so, as he hastily compounded something
out of his convenient pocket case of medicines, Doctor Lewis said,
soothingly:
“Well, the truth is, my poor fellow, we are here because we came out
to look for you, and deuced lucky for you that we found you, too, for
otherwise you must have perished unaided!”
An expression of deep bitterness came over the face of the wounded man,
and he turned impatiently from the potion Doctor Lewis extended to him.
“You are determined not to cheat yourselves of the pleasure of
stringing me up to a tree,” he moaned, weakly, yet sarcastically.
Harvey Wilson came forward with rather a shamed look on his manly,
bronzed face.
“You are quite safe from our vengeance now,” he said. “Get well as fast
as you please, Ferris, and no one will molest you for what you have
done. These horrible creatures with their dreadful fangs have made us
ashamed of having nearly been human wolves. Henceforth, we will leave
vengeance to Him who has said, ‘Vengeance is mine.’”
“And,” said Doctor Lewis, briskly, “We must construct a litter to carry
this wounded man back to camp. He will need careful nursing if he
recovers.”
“I shall not recover--I do not wish to recover,” Ferris answered. “Do
not trouble yourselves to take me back to camp. In a few hours I shall
be dead.”
Then he looked suddenly at his right hand.
“I had a letter,” he said. “When I found that I was dying I wrote down
the truth with a pen dipped in my heart’s blood. Did anyone find my
confession?”
Talbot Strangemore came forward at those anxious words.
“I have it here, my poor fellow,” he said, gently, and he stooped and
pressed his hand, adding, gratefully, “Thank you for remembering me
when you believed that you were dying.”