THE BLOODY DEED.
Let us leave the outlaws to their progress for a brief space, while we
gather up and pursue for awhile some other clues of our story.
We have witnessed the separation of Mark Forrester from his sweetheart,
at the place of trysting. The poor fellow had recovered some of his
confidence in himself and fortune, and was now prepared to go forth with
a new sentiment of hope within his bosom. The sting was in a degree
taken from his conscience--his elastic and sanguine temperament
contributed to this--and with renewed impulses to adventure, and with
new anticipations of the happiness that we all dream to find in life;
the erring, but really honest fellow, rode fearlessly through the dim
forests, without needing more auspicious lights than those of the
kindling moon and stars. The favor of old Allen, the continued love of
Kate, the encouragements of young Colleton, his own feeling of the
absence of any malice in his heart, even while committing his crime, and
the farther fact that he was well-mounted, and speeding from the region
where punishment threatened--all these were influences which conspired
to lessen, in his mind, the griefs of his present privation, and the
lonely emotions which naturally promised to accompany him in his
solitary progress.
His course lay for the great Southwest--the unopened forests, and mighty
waters of the Mississippi valley. Here, he was to begin a new life.
Unknown, he would shake off the fears which his crime necessarily
inspired. Respited from death and danger, he would atone for it by
penitence and honest works. Kate Allen should be his solace, and there
would be young and lovely children smiling around his board. Such were
the natural dreams of the young and sanguine exile.
"But who shall ride from his destiny?" saith the proverb. The wing of
the bird is no security against the shaft of the fowler, and the helmet
and the shield keep not away the draught that is poisoned. He who wears
the greaves, the gorget, and the coat-of-mail, holds defiance to the
storm of battle; but he drinks and dies in the hall of banqueting. What
matters it, too, though the eagle soars and screams among the clouds,
halfway up to heaven--flaunting his proud pinions, and glaring with
audacious glance in the very eye of the sun--death waits for him in the
quiet of his own eyry, nestling with his brood. These are the goodly
texts of the Arabian sage, in whose garden-tree, so much was he the
beloved of heaven, the birds came and nightly sang for him those solemn
truths--those lessons of a perfect wisdom--which none but the favored of
the Deity are ever permitted to hear. They will find a sufficient
commentary in the fortune of the rider whom we have just beheld setting
out from his parting with his mistress, on his way of new adventure--his
heart comparatively light, and his spirit made buoyant with the throng
of pleasant fancies which continually gathered in his thought.
The interview between Forrester and his mistress had been somewhat
protracted, and his route from her residence to the road in which we
find him, being somewhat circuitous, the night had waned considerably
ere he had made much progress. He now rode carelessly, as one who
mused--his horse, not urged by its rider, became somewhat careful of his
vigor, and his gait was moderated much from that which had marked his
outset. He had entered upon the trace through a thick wood, when the
sound of other hoofs came down upon the wind; not to his ears, for,
swallowed up in his own meditations, his senses had lost much of their
wonted acuteness. He had not been long gone from the point of the road
in which we found him, when his place upon the same route was supplied
by the pursuing party, Rivers and Munro. They were both admirably
mounted, and seemed little to regard, in their manner of using them, the
value of the good beasts which they bestrode--driving them as they did,
resolutely over fallen trees and jutting rocks, their sides already
dashed with foam, and the flanks bloody with the repeated application of
the rowel. It was soon evident that farther pursuit at such a rate would
be impossible: and Munro, as well for the protection of the horses, as
with a knowledge of this necessity, insisted upon a more moderated and
measured pace.
Much against his own will, Rivers assented, though his impatience
frequent found utterance in words querulously sarcastic. The love of
gain was a besetting sin of the landlord, and it was by this passion
that his accomplice found it easy, on most occasions, to defeat the
suggestions of his better judgment. The tauntings of the former,
therefore, were particularly bestowed upon this feature in his
character, as he found himself compelled to yield to the requisition of
the latter, with whom the value of the horses was no small
consideration.
"Well, well," said Rivers, "if you say so, it must be so; though I am
sure, if we push briskly ahead, we shall find our bargain in it. You too
will find the horse of the youth, upon which you had long since set your
eyes and heart, a full equivalent, even if we entirely ruin the
miserable beasts we ride."
"The horse you ride is no miserable beast," retorted the landlord, who
had some of the pride of a southron in this particular, and seemed
solicitous for the honor of his stud--"you have jaded him by your
furious gait, and seem entirely insensible to the fact that our progress
for the last half hour, continued much longer, would knock up any
animal. I'm not so sure, too, Guy, that we shall find the youngster, or
that we shall be able to get our own bargain out of him when found. He's
a tough colt, I take it, and will show fight unless you surprise him."
"Stay--hear you nothing now, as the wind sets up from below? Was not
that the tramping of a horse?"
They drew up cautiously as the inquiry was put by Rivers, and pausing
for a few minutes, listened attentively. Munro dismounted, and laying
his ear to the ground, endeavored to detect and distinguish the distant
sounds, which, in that way, may be heard with far greater readiness; but
he arose without being satisfied.
"You hear nothing?"
"Not a sound but that which we make ourselves. Your ears to-night are
marvellous quick, but they catch nothing. This is the third time
to-night you have fancied sounds, and heard what I could not; and I
claim to have senses in quite as high perfection as your own."
"And without doubt you have; but, know you not, Munro, that wherever the
passions are concerned, the senses become so much more acute; and,
indeed, are so many sentinels and spies--scouring about perpetually, and
with this advantage over all other sentinels, that they then never
slumber. So, whether one hate or love, the ear and the eye take heed of
all that is going on--they minister to the prevailing passion, and seem,
in their own exercise, to acquire some of the motive and impulse which
belong to it."
"I believe this in most respects to be the case. I have observed it on
more than one occasion myself, and in my own person. But, Guy, in all
that you have said, and all that I have seen, I do not yet understand
why it is that you entertain such a mortal antipathy to this young man,
more than to many others who have at times crossed your path. I now
understand the necessity for putting him out of the way; but this is
another matter. Before we thought it possible that he could injure us,
you had the same violent hatred, and would have destroyed him at the
first glance. There is more in this, Guy, than you have been willing to
let out; and I look upon it as strange, to say nothing more, that I
should be kept so much in the dark upon the subject."
Rivers smiled grimly at the inquiry, and replied at once, though with
evident insincerity,--
"Perhaps my desire to get rid of him, then, arose from a presentiment
that we should have to do it in the end. You know I have a gift of
foreseeing and foretelling."
"This won't do for me, Guy; I know you too well to regard you as one
likely to be influenced by notions of this nature--you must put me on
some other scent."
"Why, so I would, Wat, if I were assured that I myself knew the precise
impulse which sets me on this work. But the fact is, my hate to the boy
springs from certain influences which may not be defined by name--which
grow out of those moral mysteries of our nature, for which we can
scarcely account to ourselves; and, by the operation of which, we are
led to the performance of things seemingly without any adequate cause or
necessity. A few reflections might give you the full force of this. Why
do some men shrink from a cat? There is an instance now in John Bremer;
a fellow, you know, who would make no more ado about exchanging
rifle-shots with his enemy at twenty paces, than at taking dinner; yet a
black cat throws him into fits, from which for two days he never
perfectly recovers. Again--there are some persons to whom the perfume of
flowers brings sickness, and the song of a bird sadness. How are we to
account for all these things, unless we do so by a reference to the
peculiar make of the man? In this way you may understand why it is that
I hate this boy, and would destroy him. He is my black cat, and his
presence for ever throws me into fits."
"I have heard of the things of which you speak, and have known some of
them myself; but I never could believe that the _nature_ of the person
had been the occasion. I was always inclined to think that circumstances
in childhood, of which the recollection is forgotten--such as great and
sudden fright to the infant, or a blow which affected the brain, were
the operating influences. All these things, however, only affect the
fancies--they beget fears and notions--never deep and abiding
hatred--unquiet passion, and long-treasured malignity, such as I find in
you on this occasion."
"Upon this point, Munro, you may be correct. I do not mean to say that
hatred and a desire to destroy are consequent to antipathies such as you
describe; but still, something may be said in favor of such a notion. It
appears to me but natural to seek the destruction of that which is
odious or irksome to any of our senses. Why do you crush the crawling
spider with your heel? You fear not its venom; inspect it, and the
mechanism of its make, the architecture of its own fabrication, are, to
the full, as wonderful as anything within your comprehension; but yet,
without knowing why, with an impulse given you, as it would seem, from
infancy, you seek its destruction with a persevering industry, which
might lead one to suppose you had in view your direst enemy."
"This is all very true; and from infancy up we do this thing, but the
cause can not be in any loathsomeness which its presence occasions in
the mind, for we perceive the same boy destroying with measured torture
the gaudiest butterfly which his hat can encompass."
"_Non sequitur_," said Rivers.
"What's that? some of your d----d law gibberish, I suppose. If you want
me to talk with you at all, Guy, you must speak in a language I
understand."
"Why, so I will, Wat. I only meant to say, in a phrase common to the
law, and which your friend Pippin makes use of a dozen times a day, that
it did not follow from what you said, that the causes which led to the
death of the spider and the butterfly were the same. This we may know by
the manner in which they are respectively destroyed. The boy, with much
precaution and an aversion he does not seek to disguise in his attempts
on the spider, employs his shoe or a stick for the purpose of slaughter.
But, with the butterfly, the case is altogether different. He first
catches, and does not fear to hold it in his hand. He inspects it
closely, and proceeds to analyze that which his young thought has
already taught him is a beautiful creation of the insect world. He
strips it, wing by wing of its gaudy covering; and then, with a feeling
of ineffable scorn, that so wealthy a noble should go unarmed and
unprotected, he dashes him to the ground, and terminates his sufferings
without further scruple. The spider, having a sting, he is compelled to
fear, and consequently taught to respect. The feelings are all perfectly
natural, however, which prompt his proceedings. The curiosity is common
and innate which impels him to the inspection of the insect; and that
feeling is equally a natural impulse which prompts him to the death of
the spider without hesitation. So with me--it is enough that I hate this
boy, though possessed of numberless attractions of mind and person.
Shall I do him the kindness to inquire whether there be reason for the
mood which prompts me to destroy him?"
"You were always too much for me, Guy, at this sort of argument, and you
talk the matter over ingeniously enough, I grant; but still I am not
satisfied, that a mere antipathy, without show of reason, originally
induced your dislike to this young man. When you first sought to do him
up, you were conscious of this, and gave, as a reason for the desire,
the cut upon your face, which so much disfigured your loveliness."
Rivers did not appear very much to relish or regard this speech, which
had something of satire in it; but he was wise enough to restrain his
feelings, as, reverting back to their original topic, he spoke in the
following manner:--
"You are unusually earnest after reasons and motives for action,
to-night: is it not strange, Munro, that it has never occasioned
surprise in your mind, that one like myself, so far superior in numerous
respects to the men I have consented to lead and herd with, should have
made such my profession?"
"Not at all," was the immediate and ready response of his companion.
"Not at all. This was no mystery to me, for I very well knew that you
had no choice, no alternative. What else could you have done? Outlawed
and under sentence, I knew that you could never return, in any safety or
security, whatever might be your disguise, to the society which had
driven you out--and I'm sure that your chance would be but a bad one
were you to seek a return to the old practice at Gwinnett courthouse.
Any attempt there to argue a fellow out of the halter would be only to
argue yourself into it."
"Pshaw, Munro, that is the case now--that is the necessity and
difficulty of to-day. But where, and what was the necessity, think you,
when, in the midst of good practice at Gwinnett bar, where I ruled
without competitor, riding roughshod over bench, bar, and jury, dreaded
alike by all, I threw myself into the ranks of these men, and put on
their habits? I speak not now in praise of myself, more than the facts,
as you yourself know them, will sufficiently warrant. I am now above
those idle vanities which would make me deceive myself as to my own
mental merits; but, that such was my standing there and then, I hold
indisputable."
"It is true. I sometimes look back and laugh at the manner in which you
used to bully the old judge, and the gaping jury, and your own brother
lawyers, while the foam would run through your clenched teeth and from
your lips in very passion; and then I wondered, when you were doing so
well, that you ever gave up there, to undertake a business, the very
first job in which put your neck in danger."
"You may well wonder, Munro. I could not well explain the mystery to
myself, were I to try; and it is this which made the question and doubt
which we set out to explain. To those who knew me well from the first,
it is not matter of surprise that I should be for ever in excitements of
one kind or another. From my childhood up, my temper was of a restless
and unquiet character--I was always a peevish, a fretful and
discontented person. I looked with scorn and contempt upon the humdrum
ways of those about me, and longed for perpetual change, and wild and
stirring incidents. My passions, always fretful and excitable, were
never satisfied except when I was employed in some way which enabled me
to feed and keep alive the irritation which was their and my very breath
of life. With such a spirit, how could I be what men style and consider
a good man? What folly to expect it. Virtue is but a sleepy, in-door,
domestic quality--inconsistent with enterprise or great activity. There
are no drones so perfect in the world as the truly orthodox. Hence the
usual superiority of a dissenting, over an established church. It is for
this reason, too, and from this cause, that a great man is seldom, if
ever, a good one. It is inconsistent with the very nature of things to
expect it, unless it be from a co-operation of singular circumstances,
whose return is with the comets. Vice, on the contrary, is endowed with
strong passions--a feverish thirst after forbidden fruits and waters--a
bird-nesting propensity, that carries it away from the haunts of the
crowded city, into strange wilds and interminable forests. It lives upon
adventure--it counts its years by incidents, and has no other mode of
computing time or of enjoying life. This fact--and it is undeniable with
respect to both the parties--will furnish a sufficient reason why the
best heroes of the best poets are always great criminals. Were this not
the case, from what would the interest be drawn?--where would be the
incident, if all men, pursuing the quiet paths of non-interference with
the rights, the lives, or the liberties of one another, spilt no blood,
invaded no territory, robbed no lord of his lady, enslaved and made no
captives in war? A virtuous hero would be a useless personage both in
play and poem--and the spectator or reader would fall asleep over the
utterance of stale apothegms. What writer of sense, for instance, would
dream of bringing up George Washington to figure in either of these
forms before the world--and how, if he did so, would he prevent reader
or auditor from getting excessively tired, and perhaps disgusted, with
one, whom all men are now agreed to regard as the hero of civilization?
Nor do I utter sentiments which are subjects either of doubt or
disputation. I could put the question in such a form as would bring the
million to agree with me. Look, for instance, at the execution of a
criminal. See the thousands that will assemble, day after day, after
travelling miles for that single object, to gape and gaze upon the last
agonizing pangs and paroxsyms of a fellow-creature--not regarding for an
instant the fatigue of their position, the press of the crowd, or the
loss of a dinner--totally insusceptible, it would seem, of the several
influences of heat and cold, wind and rain, which at any other time
would drive them to their beds or firesides. The same motive which
provokes this desire in the spectator, is the parent, to a certain
extent, of the very crime which has led to the exhibition. It is the
morbid appetite, which sometimes grows to madness--the creature of
unregulated passions, ill-judged direction, and sometimes, even of the
laws and usages of society itself, which is so much interested in the
promotion of characteristics the very reverse. It may be that I have
more of this perilous stuff about me than the generality of mankind; but
I am satisfied there are few of them, taught as I have been, and the
prey of like influences, whose temper had been very different from mine.
The early and operating circumstances under which I grew up, all tended
to the rank growth and encouragement of the more violent and vexing
passions. I was the victim of a tyranny, which, in the end, made me too
a tyrant. To feel, myself, and exercise the temper thus taught me, I had
to acquire power in order to secure victims; and all my aims in life,
all my desires, tended to this one pursuit. Indifferent to me, alike,
the spider who could sting, or the harmless butterfly whose only
offensiveness is in the folly of his wearing a glitter which he can not
take care of. I was a merciless enemy, giving no quarter; and with an
Ishmaelitish spirit, lifting my hand against all the tribes that were
buzzing around me."
"I believe you have spoken the truth, Guy, so far as your particular
qualities of temper are concerned; for, had I undertaken to have spoken
for you in relation to this subject, I should probably have said, though
not to the same degree, the same thing; but the wonder with me is, how,
with such feelings, you should have so long remained in quiet, and in
some respects, perfectly harmless."
"There is as little mystery in the one as in the other. You may judge
that my sphere of action--speaking of _action_ in a literal sense--was
rather circumscribed at Gwinnett courthouse: but, the fact is, I was
then but acquiring my education. I was, for the first time, studying
rogues, and the study of rogues is not unaptly fitted to make one take
up the business. _I_, at least, found it to have that effect. But, even
at Gwinnett courthouse, learning as I did, and what I did, there was one
passion, or perhaps a modified form of the ruling passion, which might
have swallowed up all the rest had time been allowed it. I was young,
and not free from vanity; particularly as, for the first time, my ears
had been won with praise and gentle flatteries. The possession of early,
and afterward undisputed talents, acquired for me deference and respect;
and I was soon tempted to desire the applauses of the swinish multitude,
and to feel a thirsting after public distinction. In short, I grew
ambitious. I soon became sick and tired of the applauses, the fame, of
my own ten-mile horizon; its origin seemed equivocal, its worth and
quality questionable, at the best. My spirit grew troubled with a
wholesale discontent, and roved in search of a wider field, a more
elevated and extensive empire. But how could I, the petty lawyer of a
county court, in the midst of a wilderness, appropriate time, find means
and opportunities even for travel? I was poor, and profits are few to a
small lawyer, whose best cases are paid for by a bale of cotton or a
negro, when both of them are down in the market. In vain, and
repeatedly, did I struggle with circumstances that for ever foiled me in
my desires; until, in a rash and accursed hour, when chance, and you,
and the devil, threw the opportunity for crime in my path! It did not
escape me, and--but you know the rest."
"I do, but would rather hear you tell it. When you speak thus, you put
me in mind of some of the stump-speeches you used to make when you ran
for the legislature."
"Ay, that was another, and not the least of the many reverses which my
ambition was doomed to meet with. You knew the man who opposed me; you
know that a more shallow and insignificant fop and fool never yet dared
to thrust his head into a deliberative assembly. But, he was rich, and I
poor. He a potato, the growth of the soil; I, though generally admitted
a plant of more promise and pretension--I was an exotic! He was a
patrician--one of the small nobility--a growth, _sui generis_, of the
place--"
"Damn your law-phrases! stop with that, if you please."
"Well, well! he was one of the great men; I was a poor plebeian, whose
chief misfortune, at that time, consisted in my not having a father or a
great-grandfather a better man than myself! His money did the work, and
I was bought and beat out of my election, which I considered certain. I
then acquired knowledge of two things. I learned duly to estimate the
value of the democratic principle, when I beheld the vile slaves, whose
votes his money had commanded, laughing in scorn at the miserable
creature they had themselves put over them. They felt not--not they--the
double shame of their doings. They felt that he was King Log, but never
felt how despicable they were as his subjects. This taught me, too, the
value of money--its wonderful magic and mystery. In the mood occasioned
by all these things, you found me, for the first time, and in a ready
temper for any villany. You attempted to console me for my defeats, but
I heard you not until you spoke of revenge. I was not then to learn how
to be vindictive: I had always been so. I knew, by instinct, how to lap
blood; you only taught me how to scent it! My first great crime proved
my nature. Performed under your direction, though without your aid, it
was wantonly cruel in its execution, since the prize desired might
readily have been obtained without the life of its possessor. You, more
merciful than myself, would have held me back, and arrested my stroke;
but that would have been taking from the repast its finish: the
pleasure, for it was such to me in my condition of mind, would have been
lost entirely. It may sound strangely even in your ears when I say so,
but I could no more have kept my knife from that man's throat than I
could have taken wing for the heavens. He was a poor coward; made no
struggle, and begged most piteously for his life; had the audacity to
talk of his great possessions, his rank in society, his wife and
children. These were enjoyments all withheld from me; these were the
very things the want of which had made me what I was--what I am--and
furiously I struck my weapon into his mouth, silencing his insulting
speech. Should such a mean spirit as his have joys which were denied to
me? I spurned his quivering carcass with my foot. At that moment I felt
myself; I had something to live for. I knew my appetite, and felt that
it was native. I had acquired a knowledge of a new luxury, and ceased to
wonder at the crimes of a Nero and a Caligula. Think you, Munro, that
the thousands who assemble at the execution of a criminal trouble
themselves to inquire into the merits of his case--into the justice of
his death and punishment? Ask they whether he is the victim of justice
or of tyranny? No! they go to see a show--they love blood, and in this
way have the enjoyment furnished to their hands, without the risk which
must follow the shedding of it for themselves."
"There is one thing, Guy, upon which I never thought to ask you. What
became of that beautiful young girl from Carolina, on a visit to the
village, when you lost your election? You were then cavorting about her
in great style, and I could see that you were well nigh as much mad
after her as upon the loss of the seat."
Rivers started at the inquiry in astonishment. He had never fancied
that, in such matters, Munro had been so observant, and for a few
moments gave no reply. He evidently winced beneath the inquiry; but he
soon recovered himself, however--for, though at times exhibiting the
passions of a demoniac, he was too much of a proficient not to be able,
in the end, to command the coolness of the villain.
"I had thought to have said nothing on this subject, Munro, but there
are few things which escape your observation. In replying to you on this
point, you will now have all the mystery explained of my rancorous
pursuit of this boy. That girl--then a mere girl--refused me, as perhaps
you know; and when, heated with wine and irritated with rejection, I
pressed the point rather too warmly, she treated me with contempt and
withdrew from the apartment. This youth is the favored, the successful
rival. Look upon this picture, Walter--now, while the moon streams
through the branches upon it--and wonder not that it maddened, and still
maddens me, to think that, for his smooth face and aristocratic airs of
superiority, I was to be sacrificed and despised. She was probably a
year younger than himself; but I saw at the time, though both of them
appeared unconscious of the fact, that she loved him then. What with her
rejection and scorn, coming at the same time with my election defeat, I
am what I am. These defeats were wormwood to my soul; and, if I am
criminal, the parties concerned in them have been the cause of the
crime."
"A very consoling argument, if you could only prove it!"
"Very likely--you are not alone. The million would say with yourself.
But hear the case as I put it, and not as it is put by the majority.
Providence endowed me with a certain superiority of mind over my
fellows. I had capacities which they had not--talents to which they did
not aspire, and the possession of which they readily conceded to me.
These talents fitted me for certain stations in society, to which, as I
had the talents pre-eminently for such stations, the inference is fair
that Providence intended me for some such stations. But I was denied my
place. Society, guilty of favoritism and prejudice, gave to others, not
so well fitted as myself for its purposes or necessities, the station in
all particulars designed for me. I was denied my birthright, and
rebelled. Can society complain, when prostituting herself and depriving
me of my rights, that I resisted her usurpation and denied her
authority? Shall she, doing wrong herself in the first instance,
undertake to punish? Surely not. My rights were admitted--my superior
capacity: but the people were rotten to the core; they had not even the
virtue of truth to themselves. They made their own governors of the
vilest and the worst. They willingly became slaves, and are punished in
more ways than one. They first create the tyrants--for tyrants are the
creatures of the people they sway, and never make themselves; they next
drive into banishment their more legitimate rulers; and the consequence,
in the third place, is, that they make enemies of those whom they exile.
Such is the case with me, and such--but hark! That surely is the tread
of a horse. Do you hear it? there is no mistake now--" and as he spoke,
the measured trampings were heard resounding at some distance, seemingly
in advance of them.
"We must now use the spur, Munro; your horses have had indulgence enough
for the last hour, and we may tax them a little now."
"Well, push on as you please; but do you know anything of this route,
and what course will you pursue in doing him up?"
"Leave all that to me. As for the route, it is an old acquaintance; and
the blaze on this tree reminds me that we can here have a short cut
which will carry us at a good sweep round this hill, bringing us upon
the main trace about two miles farther down. We must take this course,
and spur on, that we may get ahead of him, and be quietly stationed when
he comes. We shall gain it, I am confident, before our man, who seems to
be taking it easily. He will have three miles at the least to go, and
over a road that will keep him in a walk half the way. We shall be there
in time."
They reached the point proposed in due season. Their victim had not yet
made his appearance, and they had sufficient time for all their
arrangements. The place was one well calculated for the successful
accomplishment of a deed of darkness. The road at the foot of the hill
narrowed into a path scarcely wide enough for the passage of a single
horseman. The shrubbery and copse on either side overhung it, and in
many places were so thickly interwoven, that when, as at intervals of
the night, the moon shone out among the thick and broken clouds which
hung upon and mostly obscured her course, her scattered rays scarcely
penetrated the dense enclosure.
At length the horseman approached, and in silence. Descending the hill,
his motion was slow and tedious. He entered the fatal avenue; and, when
in the midst of it, Rivers started from the side of his comrade, and,
advancing under the shelter of a tree, awaited his progress. He came--no
word was spoken--a single stroke was given, and the horseman, throwing
up his hands, grasped the limb which projected over, while his horse
passed from under him. He held on for a moment to the branch, while a
groan of deepest agony broke from his lips, when he fell supine to the
ground. At that moment, the moon shone forth unimpeded and unobscured by
a single cloud. The person of the wounded man was fully apparent to the
sight. He struggled, but spoke not; and the hand of Rivers was again
uplifted, when Munro rushed forward.
"Stay--away, Guy!--we are mistaken--this is not our man!"
The victim heard the words, and, with something like an effort at a
laugh, though seemingly in great agony, exclaimed--
"Ah, Munro, is that you?--I am so glad! but I'm afraid you come too
late. This is a cruel blow; and--for what? What have I done to you,
that--oh!--"
The tones of the voice--the person of the suffering man--were now
readily distinguishable.
"Good God! Rivers, what is to be the end of all this blundering?"
"Who would have thought to find _him_ here?" was the ferocious answer;
the disappointed malice of the speaker prompting him to the bitterest
feelings against the unintended victim--"why was he in the way? he is
always in the way!"
"I am afraid you've done for him."
"We must be sure of it."
"Great God! would you kill him?"
"Why not? It must be done now."
The wounded man beheld the action of the speaker, and heard the
discussion. He gasped out a prayer for life:--
"Spare me, Guy! Save me, Wat, if you have a man's heart in your bosom.
Save me! spare me! I would live! I--oh, spare me!"
And the dying man threw up his hands feebly, in order to avert the blow;
but it was in vain. Munro would have interposed, but, this time, the
murderer was too quick for him, if not too strong. With a sudden rush he
flung his associate aside, stooped down, and smote--smote fatally.
"Kate!--ah!--O God, have mercy!"
The wretched and unsuspecting victim fell back upon the earth with these
last words--dead--sent to his dread account, with all his sins upon his
head! And what a dream of simple happiness in two fond, feeble hearts,
was thus cruelly and terribly dispersed for ever!