POWER DRIVEN INTO WILDERNESS
Power arrived at New York in mid-winter. He found that crowded hive
humming, as usual, with life and its activities, but in a new and
perplexing way. The Waldorf Hotel had become the Waldorf-Astoria, and,
while doubling its name, had increased fourfold in size. Its main
corridor had the bustle and crush of a busy street; but every face had
an aspect of aloofness, almost of hostility. The old, intimate life of
America had vanished. None paid heed to the newcomer. The spick-and-span
occupants of the reception bureau evidently regarded him as Room Number
So-and-so. Confused and mystified by the well-dressed throng of the
hotel's patrons, he failed to notice, at first, that it was composed of
individuals, or groups, as unknown to one another as he was to the mass;
that, in very truth, it was
"... no other than a moving row
Of Magic Shadow-shapes that come and go."
He reached the hotel early in the evening, and was fortunate in being
able to secure a suite of rooms. Soon wearying of the traffic in that
world's fair which caustic New York has nicknamed "Rubberneck Alley," he
bought a newspaper, and retired to his apartments. But the day's record
held no interest for him. He knew little of the men and women who
figured therein; even less of the events which called for big type and
immense headlines.
But his eye was caught by an announcement of a performance that night of
Gounod's "Faust" at the Metropolitan Opera House. He resolved to go
there, never dreaming that the odds were hundreds to one against the
chance of obtaining a seat; for New York had just entered the lists
against the other capitals of the world, and was determined to capture
the leading place in the grand-opera tourney.
He telephoned the office, "Kindly get me a stall for the Metropolitan
this evening."
And, behold! a blasé clerk was actually stirred out of boredom by the
surprising statement received from the box-office that a stall had just
been returned, and he could have it now if he closed at once. So Power
never knew what a trick Fortune had played him, since there can be
little doubt that the impression made by the marvelous music and
extraordinarily human appeal of "Faust" insensibly prepared him for the
tragic events of the coming day. Imagine a man of musical bent, who had
dwelt seven years among veritable savages, renewing his acquaintance
with the muses by hearing the most poignant of stage love-stories told
in Gounod's impassioned strains and interpreted by famous singers and a
superb orchestra!
The exquisite tenderness of the doomed lover's first address to
Marguerite thrilled his inmost being.
"Ne permettrez-vous pas, ma belle demoiselle,
Qu'en vous offre le bras, pour faire le chemin?"
He was struck by the coincidence that the woman to whom he was pledged
should be named Marguerite! _Faire le chemin!_ Yes, they would soon be
taking the long road of life together. What assured happiness seemed to
breathe from each perfect note; yet what horror and despair would be the
outcome of the man's ardor and the maid's shy diffidence! When
Marguerite told Faust that she was _ni demoiselle_, _ni belle_, Power
could hardly fail to recollect that his own Marguerite, not without
cruel cause, was ever tortured by the fear that her disfigurement might
some day turn him from her with loathing. Even the slaying of Valentine
as the direct outcome of his sister's frailty seemed, to the overwrought
imagination of one member of the audience, to bear an uncanny analogy to
his mother's death. There remained one other point of contact between
the story of the opera and Power's own life; but, fortunately for him,
or his surcharged emotions might not have withstood the strain, he could
not recognize as yet that last and most terrible similarity.
As it was, his rapt interest in the opera attracted the attention of his
neighbors in the stalls. As a girl whispered to her attendant cavalier:
"That man near us--the man with the piercing eyes and worn face--seems
to regard 'Faust' as history rather than allegory."
"Perhaps he sees the allegory," was the answer, and the girl shrugged
her pretty shoulders. She was young, and dwelt in a sheltered garden. To
her, "Faust" was only an opera. It had nothing to do with the realities
of life; which, if she were asked for a definition, consisted mainly of
so ordering one's time as to miss no important social function.
Next morning, though aware of a nervous system still in a curious state
of exaltation and strain after his overnight experiences, Power yielded
quickly to the stimulating effect of the keen, cold air and bright
sunshine of a typical winter's day on the North Atlantic seaboard. After
breakfast he walked to his bank, and was received as one risen from the
dead. Financial institutions, even the soundest and most conservative,
have a special flair for clients who allow vast sums of money to
accumulate, year by year, at rates of interest which suit the bank's own
purposes.
When Power had been welcomed heartily by the manager--his friend of
former days, now promoted--the latter said cheerfully:
"Well, since you have actually returned from Mars, or whatever planet
you may have been visiting, I suppose you want to look into your
account?"
"It seems a reasonable thing to do, especially as I am thinking of
marrying," agreed Power.
The official gave some instruction to the general office, and a passbook
was produced. There were, of course, hardly any entries on the debit
side, and payments from mine and ranch had been made half-yearly; so one
small book contained the whole of the seven years' statement. Power,
unaccustomed as yet to the methods of financial bookkeeping, turned to
the latest column, and saw a row of figures. He looked perplexed,
whereat the manager smiled.
"Well," came the question, "I fancy you find yourself well able to
maintain a wife?"
Power's eyes seemed to be fascinated by the item which had first
attracted them.
"Y-yes," he said hesitatingly; "but I had a notion that I was very much
better off."
Then it was the manager's turn to be puzzled. He rose, came round the
table at which the two were seated, and adjusted his eyeglasses.
"Better off!" he exclaimed. "Why, you are a very rich man, Mr. Power.
Don't you see----" He broke into a loud laugh as he discovered the entry
which this queer-mannered client was gazing at. "Man alive," he cried,
"that is the last half-year's interest on your capital! The current rate
is rather low, two and one-half per cent. Here," and he pointed to the
top of the page, "is a summary of your deposit--four million dollars,
all in hard cash. If you mean to begin investing, I must ask you to go
slow. Even in your own interests, that is advisable. Heavy purchases of
stock tend to bull the market, and it is a little inclined to go that
way at the moment. I'll give you a list of gilt-edged securities which
will, of course, nearly double your annual revenue from invested capital
alone. You had better show it to some other adviser, and, when you have
selected your stocks, let me begin operating. I can carry the whole
thing through in a couple of months without letting Wall Street know
that a big buyer is in the market."
Power was rather stunned by the amount of his wealth, and an odd thought
darted through his brain that if, in the world of today, no tempter
could bribe another Doctor Faustus with the offer of renewed youth, the
fiend might pour gold into his chosen victim's pockets. Almost could he
feel the mocking phantom at his shoulder; though, indeed, there was none
other in the room than the courteous banker.
"Great Scott!" the latter was saying. "What a bonanza that mine of yours
is! And Bison is growing quite a town. I paid it a flying visit last
summer. Have you been there recently? I imagine not, since your
cablegram came from Buenos Aires."
Bison was a word to evoke shadows; but it sufficed to drive one away
just then.
"Ah, Bison!" said Power, standing up. "I must go west at once. I have
not even made known to MacGonigal my presence in America. He is well, I
hope?"
"Fatter than ever. There is some talk of his running for governor."
"And Jake, the man in charge of the ranch? Did you hear of him when you
were in Colorado?"
"Yes, indeed. He is married."
"Married! Jake!"
"More than that, his wife, a pretty little woman, told me she had to
threaten a divorce in order to stop him from mounting the little Jakes
on what he calls 'plugs' before the kiddies were well out of the
perambulator."
A clerk announced through a speaking-tube that someone wanted the
banker. The conventional, "Ask him to wait one minute," warned Power
that this was no hour for gossip.
"I can have some money now?" he inquired.
"As much as you like."
"May I ask--I am a child in these matters--if good diamonds are
obtainable in New York, and what I ought to pay for a ring--an
engagement ring?"
"Our diamonds are not cheap; but they are supposed to be the pick of the
market. I think you ought to get a perfect ring for a thousand dollars.
By the way, there is quite an accumulation of letters here. Leave your
address, and they will be packed and sent to your rooms."
Power wrote a check at the counter, and was given a bundle of notes. He
went to a well-known jewelry establishment recommended by the bank
manager, and asked to be shown some engagement rings.
"What size, sir?" inquired an attendant.
"Oh, not anything remarkable, but of the best quality."
"I mean, sir, what size is the lady's finger?"
Power laughed. He realized that he must come down out of the clouds, and
pay heed occasionally to the minor phases of life.
"I don't know. She has small hands, and, long, tapering fingers," he
said, smiling at his own fatuity; for the description might have been a
line taken bodily out of nineteen novels among every twenty.
"It really doesn't matter, sir," said the shopman, eager to please a new
customer. "If you choose a suitable ring, the lady can send or bring it
here, and it will be adjusted to the right size without any delay or
extra charge."
"But she is in England."
"Exactly the same conditions apply in our London branch."
So Power bought a very beautiful ring, which happened to contain seven
graduated stones in a single row. The number pleased him, and he was
sure Meg would note its significance. He secured the gage thus early so
that he might write and tell her about it; while its mere possession and
safeguarding would supply an extra stimulus for a speedy crossing of the
Atlantic.
Then he strolled up Fifth Avenue, and did not flinch from memories of
the last time he had passed through that remarkable thoroughfare. He
would be callous, indeed, if his thoughts did not dwell on Nancy, and go
back to the sweet lawlessness of their brief companionship. Where was
she now? he wondered. A fine lady, no doubt, ruffling it with matronly
self-possession among the high-born friends she had won in Paris and
London. And that mean-spirited wretch, her father? Dead, in all
probability, or eating his heart out in semi-insanity; for Power was
beginning to see, with surer, wider vision, that Willard must have known
he was a murderer, since no other hand but his had sent a dear and
honored woman to her grave.
Then his mind reverted to Marguerite Sinclair, and he was comforted by
his knowledge of her frank, joyous, make-the-best-of-everything
temperament. He had not deluded himself into the belief that he was
marrying her in the flood-tide of passion which had overwhelmed Nancy
and himself. Pretense was always hateful to him, and it would be rank
hypocrisy to assume that the madness of that first love could ever again
surge through heart and brain. Marguerite's own action in accepting him
after she had looked into the pages of his earlier life gave ample
assurance that she would be content with his faith and devotion. She
was no lovesick maid, but a woman of strong, clear perceptions. He was
troubled with no doubt as to the future nor qualm as to the past, and he
thanked Providence humbly for having allotted him such a true and honest
helpmate for his remaining years.
On returning to the hotel, he found a bulky package in his room. It
contained heaps of letters and other documents which had been sent to
the bank or forwarded from Bison, and, of course, they were mostly seven
years old, or thereabouts. Two, bearing recent postmarks, caught his
eye, and he read them first.
One was from Dacre. "You see," it ran, "I remain on the map. If this
reaches you, cable me. My house is yours for as long as you care to
stay."
The other brought a smile to his lips. It was in Spanish, and signed
"Bartolomeo Malaspina":
"Honored Señor [wrote the captain of the _Carmen_].--"You asked me
to write after seven years. Well, praised be my patron saint, I am
still alive, and I hope you are. I have often spoken to my wife of
the wretchedness of soul you caused me by disappearing among those
accursed Indians; but I must admit, nevertheless, that your short
voyage in my ship brought me luck, for I fell in with a liner with
a broken shaft caused by colliding with a derelict, and she was
drifting into the reefs off Hanover Island when I got a tow-rope
on board. It was a fine job to haul her as far as Punta Arenas;
but, thanks to the Eleven Thousand Virgins, I managed it, and the
salvage made me a rich man. The _Carmen_, too, ran ashore at
Iquique on the homeward voyage, and she was well insured. Write, I
pray you, if you have escaped from the cannibals. If not, a year
from this date, I shall pay for two masses for the repose of your
soul."
So, then, he was remembered by a few friends. The knowledge consoled him
for the heedless rush and flurry of New York.
An impulse seized him to break the seals of an envelop marked, "To be
burnt, unopened, by my executors," and take therefrom two letters which
he knew it contained. The action was nothing more nor less than a trial
of his new-born resolve; since the letters were Nancy's to himself and
Willard's to his mother. He read them calmly and dispassionately.
Willard's malicious threat he dismissed quickly. It had served its vile
purpose, and its victims had paid the price demanded, the mother by
death, the son by suffering. But Nancy's few disconnected sentences
gripped his imagination with a new force. Had he misjudged her? he
wondered. What argument had Willard used that she yielded so promptly
and completely? The broken, pitiful words brought a mist before his
eyes. Poor girl! Perhaps, in her woman's way, she had endured miseries
from which life among the Indians had rescued him. Then he recalled the
farewell message she had given to Dacre, and the momentary belief that
he might have acted precipitately died away. Should he ever meet her in
the years to come? He hoped not, with all his heart. He must so contrive
Meg's life and his own that they would pass their days far from the
haunts of society. The worship of the golden calf permits its votaries
no escape. Thank Heaven, and he and his wife would never practise the
cult!
Glancing casually through the rest of the heap, his attention was drawn
to a couple of cablegrams. He opened one, and found that it was dated in
the late autumn of that memorable year. It read:
"Leave everything, and forget all that has passed. Come at once.
"N."
One night, sleeping in the depths of a Patagonian forest, he had been
aroused by the snarl of some wild animal close at hand. He had never
known what beast it was that rustled away among the undergrowth; but he
felt the same sense of impending evil now. Thinking the other message
might be more explanatory, he tore at the envelop with nervous fingers;
but the contents were an exact replica of its predecessor. Then he saw
that one had been sent to Bison and the other to New York on the same
day, the place of origin of each being London.
He could not doubt that "N" was "Nancy," and he asked himself, with
quick foreboding, what strong motive had inspired this urgent command.
He was to forget all that had passed! What strangely variable creatures
woman were, to be sure! Could she, or any woman, honestly imagine that
such a request might be obeyed? Forget that struggle between love and
duty; forget the delirium of that fortnight in the Adirondacks; forget
the numb agony of the days following her flight? As soon might a man
forget his own name!
Nerving himself to the task, he searched for some written word which
should make clear the baffling enigma. Soon he came across two letters
in Nancy's handwriting, and bearing the London postmark. The dates were
three months apart, and the earlier one corresponded with that on the
cablegrams; so he opened it first, and read:
"My own dear Derry.--A few hours ago I cabled you, both to Bison
and New York, that you are to come to me without delay, and I
hope, I even pray on my knees, that you are already in the train
or steamer. Still, I am in such a fever of dread lest any untoward
event may have kept my message from you, or prevented you from
starting instantly, that I write also. If, which Heaven forbid,
any shred of doubt or misgiving has gripped you, and you have
decided to await a more explicit reason for my action in bidding
you come, I am writing by to-day's mail to tell you that
circumstances beyond my control, or yours, render it imperative
that I should leave Hugh Marten now and forever. Derry, don't ask
me to explain myself more fully. There are things which a woman
may whisper, but which she cannot write. Yet it is only just that
I should, at least, make plain the dreadful conditions under which
I left you five months since. My father meant to kill you before
my eyes. No consideration would have stopped him. He was resolved
to shoot you without warning if I refused to return to Marten's
house, and I yielded; for I could not bear the thought of seeing
you stretched lifeless in front of the dear little hut in which we
had been so happy. I may have been weak, but I loved you too much
to let you give your life in exchange for my love, and he
convinced me that he was in deadly earnest. So I went away with
him, and tried to make myself despicable in your eyes as the
surest way of searing the bitter wound my action would cause.
Remember, he left me no alternative. The break had to be final, or
he would seek you out and slay you without mercy, and I knew only
too well that he not only meant what he said, but that our laws
would support and public opinion acclaim his action. Well, I
traveled with him to England, and have been so ill ever
since--though not physically such a wreck as I have pretended to
be--that Marten believes I am suffering from the effects of the
heat wave, and has compelled me to endure the treatment and
scrutiny of many doctors. And today, one of them---- But now I
must be dumb, except to tell you that, whether or not it means
death to both of us, you _must_ come and take me away to some
secret place where none can find us. Don't think that this letter
is written in a moment of impulse. It is not the product of a
woman's hysteria. It is a cry from my very heart. And, in the
midst of my desolation, I am glad--oh, so glad! I am aflame with a
delight that is almost superhuman; for I know that you will
understand, and that nothing on earth can ever part us again. My
tears are falling on this page, but my higher and truer self is
singing a canticle of praise and wonderful joy. Hurry, Derry,
hurry!
"I am, and have ever been,
"Your true and devoted
"NANCY."
Power's brain was on fire as he read; but his heart seemed to be in the
clutch of an icy hand. For some minutes--he never subsequently knew how
long the trance lasted--he was transported bodily to the shores of a
sunlit lake, and he lived again through the frenzy of those first hours
after Nancy's disappearance. When his senses came back, and his blazing
eyes could discern the written word, he read and reread those parts of
the letter which breathed her secret. Then, with the listless despair of
a man who realizes that the new sanctuary of hope and self-confidence
which he had constructed with so much blind faith, to which he had given
so many laborious years, was tumbling in ruins at his feet, he opened
the second letter, which was somewhat bulky, and crackled under his
touch. From the middle of the folded sheet he took a withered spray of
white heather. Had it been a poisonous snake he could not have started
more violently. There was no doubting either its origin or significance.
He held in his shaking hands the very spray Nancy carried at her
wedding, and she had sent it as a token that all was at an end between
them. He was minded then and there to commit the whole pile of
correspondence to destroying flames; but he was well aware that such a
coward's trick would prove of no avail. Strive as he might, he could
never expel from his breast the blighting knowledge lodged there now and
forever. Those shrunken and faded strands of heather were typical of his
own life. Not all the alchemies of wizardry or miracles of science could
restore their bright hues. They were dead, and sinking slowly into dust.
No shower from Heaven could freshen them, no kindly care quicken them
into vitality. They were dead, and he was dead, a mere dried-up husk of
a man, a banned creature, to whom hope and faith and the bright vision
of a new career were ruthlessly forbidden.
At last, thinking he might as well learn the scorching truth in its
entirety, he turned to the letter.
It was undated; but the postmark was eloquent, and it began with strange
abruptness:
"So, then, Derry, you have cast me off, left me to die; for I shall die
within a month, or less. Well, be it so. I am content. If such is the
woman's lot, of what avail to cry aloud to Heaven that it is unjust?
But, if ever you come to realize what tortures I have endured while
waiting in vain for the answer that never arrived, surely you will pity
me. I, once so full of the joy of life, am humbled to the dust. Your
departure from Bison--for my constant friend MacGonigal has told me of
your going--robbed me of my last frail refuge. Some day, perhaps, you
will read these farewell words of the woman who loved you, who still
loves you, who will love you to the end, whose last prayer will be for
you and not for herself. Oh, Derry, it will be hard to pass into the
everlasting night, knowing that you and I shall never meet again on this
side of the grave, but harder still to deliver into the keeping of one
whom I loathe the living memory of my brief happiness. It may not be so.
My child and I may go out into the darkness together; but I dare not
petition the Most High for that crowning mercy. Have I really done
wrong? I cannot decide, but grope blindly for guidance. If I am judged,
it will be by One who looks into the heart, and will treat an erring
woman with divine compassion as well as justice. But you, if ever you
see what I am setting down here, and I am convinced that you will, even
though I be long dead--what of you? My heart aches for you. Can I give
you any message of healing and solace? Yes, one. If my child lives--ah,
it is bitter to think that the mother's eyes will be glazing in death
when they see her babe!--I charge you with a sacred responsibility. What
do I mean? I cannot tell you. I am fey today. I peer into a dim future.
I only know that I shall not survive my little one's birth, and that
some day, somehow, you will understand that which is hidden from my ken
in laying this duty upon you. And that way will come consolation. Do
you remember how I used to hate that word 'duty'? Yet it is stronger
than I. It compels me, even now.
"Farewell, Derry. I kiss you, in a waking dream. No matter what the
world has in store for you--though some other fair woman may quicken
into life because of you--though men may honor your name and exalt you
to the high places--you will never forget the girl you once held dear.
As a souvenir, I send you all that is left of the bunch of white heather
which formed my wedding bouquet. Did you see it that day when you hid on
the ledge, and watched the triumphal start of a journey which has led me
into such strange places and is now to end so soon? We never spoke of it
when we passed the long, sunny hours by the lake--dear Heaven! our lake!
Would that its bright waters had closed over my head then; for I was so
happy, and so much in love with you and the world! But I knew what
happened on that June day in the Gulch, for I could read your soul
mirrored in your eyes; so now I give you one final memento, and hug the
belief that you will press it to your lips. My poor secret dies with me,
perhaps. I don't imagine that the man whom I used to revere as a father
will satisfy an unfathomable spite by denying my child the tending and
luxury it will receive in Hugh Marten's care. I could write reams of a
woman's sad longings, of explanations that would lead nowhere; but I
dare not trust even you, else you would deem me mad. And I am not mad,
only woebegone and fearful, for the night cometh, and I shudder at its
silence and mystery. So, once more, and for the last time, farewell, my
dear. I take you in my arms. I cling to you, even in death."
The unhappy man wilted under that piteous leave-taking. He felt that he
had descended into a tomb, and was listening to a voice speaking in
dread tones. The thick curtains of despair closed over his soul, and he
seemed to be falling into an abyss. He heard himself uttering a broken
wail of protest; for it was borne in on him that Nancy's heart-rending
message had riveted close against the fetters he thought to have left
forever amid the dun recesses of the Andes. What remained in life for
him? What could there be of happiness and content, with the dire
conviction lodged immovably in heart and brain that Nancy, like his
mother, had died because of his wrong-doing? He was caught in some
furious and fatal maelstrom which, like that fabled whirlpool of the
North Sea, was sweeping him, in ever-narrowing circles, to irresistible
doom. The marvel is that his mind did not give way; but a merciful
release was not to be vouchsafed in that manner, for the fantastic
laughter of lunacy would have been kinder than the blackness of darkness
which now enwrapped his being. In that hour of abasement his spirit
capitulated. Nothing mattered. He was crushed and paralyzed. He could
not pray, because it did not seem as though there was One who gave heed.
The bright world had become a place of skulls, a charnel house, a prison
whose iron walls were closing in on him eternally.
It was a strange thing that he did not, even as a passing obsession,
think of terminating the dreary pilgrimage of life then and there. At
Bison, during the first stupor of grief after his mother's death and
Nancy's desertion, he had pondered, many a time, the awful problem which
ever presents itself to men of strong will and resolute purpose. When
life appears to be no longer worth living the question arises--why not
end it? But seven years of lonely musing had given depth and solidity to
his nature. Above all, he had been taught to endure. He had come now to
a worse pass than any that pierced the Andes; for an unending desert lay
in front, while he was leaving a fair territory in which lay domestic
joys and a love for which his soul hungered. In the moment when union
with Marguerite Sinclair was forbidden so sternly he gaged with woeful
accuracy the extent of his longing for her companionship. He understood,
with a certainty of judgment that brooked no counter argument, that he
could never marry. He dared not. If that which Nancy had said was true,
he would surely kill himself in a paroxysm of loathing and
self-accusation when any other woman's kiss was still hot on his lips.
There remained a task not to be shirked--he must ascertain, beyond
doubt, that Nancy was really dead. Gathering the four letters in whose
yellowing sheets was summarized the whole story of his wasted life, he
placed them in a pocketbook. In doing so, he happened to touch the case
containing the ring he had bought for Meg. Oddly enough, that simple
incident cost him the sharpest pang; but he conquered his emotions, much
as a man might do who was facing unavoidable death, and even forced his
trembling fingers to put the envelop which held Nancy's white heather
side by side with Marguerite's diamonds. Then he went out.
An oldtime acquaintance in Denver with the ways of journalism led him to
the nearest newspaper office. There he asked to be taken to the news
editor's room, and a busy man looked at him curiously when he explained
that he wanted to know whether or not Mrs. Marten, wife of Hugh Marten,
was living, and, if dead, the date of her demise.
There was something in Power's manner that puzzled the journalist, some
hint of tragedy and immeasurable loss, but he was courteously explicit.
"You mean Hugh Marten, the financier, formerly of Colorado?" he
inquired.
"Yes, that is the man."
The other took a volume from a shelf of biographies, by which is meant
the newspaper variety--typed accounts of notable people still living,
together with newspaper cuttings referring to recent events in their
careers. Soon he had a pencil on an entry.
"Yes," he said. "Mrs. Marten has been dead nearly seven years."
"And her child? Is the child living?"
"Yes. Poor lady! She died in giving it birth. I remember now. It was a
very sad business. Mrs. Marten was a remarkably beautiful woman. Her
husband was inconsolable. He has not married again; but is devoted to
his little daughter, who, by the way, was named after her mother--Nancy
Willard Marten. Ah, of course, that middle name reminds me of something
else. Mrs. Marten's father, Francis Willard, was accidentally shot last
year."
"Shot?"
"Yes. He was summering in the Adirondacks, and was out after duck; but,
by some mischance, caught a trigger when crawling through a clump of
rushes, and blew the top of his head off."
"He was near a lake, then?"
"Yes. It wasn't Forked Lake, but a sheet of water in the hills not far
distant. I can find out the exact locality if you wish it."
"No, thank you. I am very much obliged to you."
"No trouble at all. Sorry I hadn't better news, if these people are
friends of yours."
So Willard was dead, and by his own hand, and the scene of his last
reckoning was the lake which witnessed the ignoble revenge he had
wreaked on Power by sacrificing Nancy! The broken man bowed his head
humbly. He had been scourged with whips; but his sworn enemy had been
chastised with scorpions.