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The Death Shot: A Story Retold
“Damn Dick Darke! Damn him for doin’ it!” they shout, till the walls re-echo their ribald blasphemy.
The drinking debauch is continued till a late hour, Quantrell paying shot for the whole party. Maudlin as most of them have become, they still wonder that a man so shabbily dressed can command so much cash and coin. Some of them are not a little perplexed by it.
Borlasse is less so than any of his fellow-tipplers. He has noted certain circumstances that give him a clue to the explanation; one, especially, which seems to make everything clear. As the stranger, calling himself Phil Quantrell, stands holding his glass in hand, his handkerchief employed to wipe the wine from his lips, and carelessly returned to his pocket, slips out, and fails upon the floor. Borlasse stooping, picks it up, but without restoring it to its owner.
Instead, he retires to one side; and, unobserved, makes himself acquainted with a name embroidered on its corner.
When, at a later hour, the two sit together, drinking a last good-night draught, Borlasse places his lips close to the stranger’s ear, whispering as if it were Satan himself who spoke, “Your name is not Philip Quantrell: ’tis Richard Darke!”
Chapter Thirty Three.
The murderer unmasked
A rattlesnake sounding its harsh “skirr” under the chair on which the stranger is sitting could not cause him to start up more abruptly than he does, when Borlasse says: —
“Your name is not Philip Quantrell: ’tis Richard Darke!”
He first half rises to his feet, then sits down again; all the while trembling in such fashion, that the wine goes over the edge of his glass, sprinkling the sanded floor.
Fortunately for him, all the others have retired to their beds, it being now a very late hour of the night – near midnight. The drinking “saloon” of the Choctaw Chief is quite emptied of its guests. Even Johnny, the bar-keeper, has gone kitchen-wards to look after his supper.
Only Borlasse witnesses the effect of his own speech; which, though but whispered, has proved so impressive.
The speaker, on his side, shows no surprise. Throughout all the evening he has been taking the measure of his man, and has arrived at a clear comprehension of the case. He now knows he is in the company of Charles Clancy’s assassin. The disguise which Darke has adopted – the mere shaving off moustaches and donning a dress of home-wove “cottonade” – the common wear of the Louisiana Creole – with slouch hat to correspond, is too flimsy to deceive Captain Jim Borlasse, himself accustomed to metamorphoses more ingenious, it is nothing new for him to meet a murderer fleeing from the scene of his crime – stealthily, disguisedly making way towards that boundary line, between the United States and Texas – the limit of executive justice.
“Come, Quantrell!” he says, raising his arm in a gesture of reassurance, “don’t waste the wine in that ridikelous fashion. You and me are alone, and I reckin we understand one another. If not, we soon will – the sooner by your puttin’ on no nonsensical airs, but confessin’ the clar and candid truth. First, then, answer me this questyun: Air you, or air you not, Richard Darke? If ye air, don’t be afeerd to say so. No humbuggery! Thar’s no need for’t. An’ it won’t do for Jim Borlasse.”
The stranger, trembling, hesitates to make reply.
Only for a moment. He sees it will be of no use denying his identity. The man who has questioned him – of giant size and formidable aspect – notwithstanding the copious draughts he has swallowed, appears cool as a tombstone, and stern as an Inquisitor. The bloodshot eyes look upon him with a leer that seems to say: “Tell me a lie, and I’m your enemy.”
At the same time those eyes speak of friendship; such as may exist between two scoundrels equally steeped in crime.
The murderer of Charles Clancy – now for many days and nights wandering the earth, a fugitive from foiled justice, taking untrodden paths, hiding in holes and corners, at length seeking shelter under the roof of the Choctaw Chief, because of its repute, sees he has reached a haven of safety.
The volunteered confessions of Borlasse – the tale of his hostility to Clancy, and its cause – inspire him with confidence about any revelations he may make in return. Beyond all doubt his new acquaintance stands in mud, deep as himself. Without further hesitation, he says – “I am Richard Darke.”
“All right!” is the rejoinder. “And now, Mr Darke, let me tell you, I like your manly way of answerin’ the question I’ve put ye. Same time, I may as well remark, ’twould ’a been all one if ye’d sayed no! This child hain’t been hidin’ half o’ his life, ’count o’ some little mistakes made at the beginnin’ of it, not to know when a man’s got into a sim’lar fix. First day you showed your face inside the Choctaw Chief I seed thar war something amiss; tho’, in course, I couldn’t gie the thing a name, much less know ’thar that ugly word which begins with a M. This evenin’, I acknowledge, I war a bit put out – seein’ you round thar by the planter’s, spyin’ after one of them Armstrong girls; which of them I needn’t say.”
Darke starts, saying mechanically, “You saw me?”
“In coorse I did – bein’ there myself, on a like lay.”
“Well?” interrogates the other, feigning coolness.
“Well; that, as I’ve said, some leetle bamboozled me. From your looks and ways since you first came hyar, I guessed that the something wrong must be different from a love-scrape. Sartint, a man stayin’ at the Choctaw Chief, and sporting the cheap rig as you’ve got on, wan’t likely to be aspirin’ to sech dainty damsels as them. You’ll give in, yourself, it looked a leetle queer; didn’t it?”
“I don’t know that it did,” is the reply, pronounced doggedly, and in an assumed tone of devil-may-care-ishness.
“You don’t! Well, I thought so, up to the time o’ gettin’ back to the tavern hyar – not many minutes afore my meetin’ and askin’ you to jine us in drinks. If you’ve any curiosity to know what changed my mind, I’ll tell ye.”
“What?” asks Darke, scarcely reflecting on his words.
“That ere newspaper you war readin’ when I gave you the invite. I read it afore you did, and had ciphered out the whole thing. Puttin’ six and six thegither, I could easy make the dozen. The same bein’, that one of the young ladies stayin’ at the hotel is the Miss Helen Armstrong spoke of in the paper; and the man I observed watchin’ her is Richard Darke, who killed Charles Clancy —yourself!”
“I – I am – I won’t – I don’t deny it to you, Mr Borlasse. I am Richard Darke. I did kill Charles Clancy; though I protest against its being said I murdered him.”
“Never mind that. Between friends, as I suppose we can now call ourselves, there need be no nice distinguishin’ of tarms. Murder or manslaughter, it’s all the same, when a man has a motive sech as yourn. An’ when he’s druv out o’ the pale of what they call society, an’ hunted from the settlements, he’s not like to lose the respect of them who’s been sarved the same way. Your bein’ Richard Darke an’ havin’ killed Charles Clancy, in no ways makes you an enemy o’ Jim Borlasse – except in your havin’ robbed me of a revenge I’d sworn to take myself. Let that go now. I ain’t angry, but only envious o’ you, for havin’ the satisfaction of sendin’ the skunk to kingdom come, without givin’ me the chance. An’ now, Mister Darke, what do you intend doin’?”
The question comes upon the assassin with a sobering effect. His copious potations have hitherto kept him from reflecting.
Despite the thieve’s confidence with which Borlasse has inspired him, this reference to his future brings up its darkness, with its dangers; and he pauses before making response.
Without waiting for it, his questioner continues:
“If you’ve got no fixed plan of action, and will listen to the advice of a friend, I’d advise you to become one o’ us.”
“One of you! What does that mean, Mr Borlasse?”
“Well, I can’t tell you here,” answers Borlasse, in a subdued tone. “Desarted as this bar-room appear to be, it’s got ears for all that. I see that curse, Johnny, sneakin’ about, pretendin’ to be lookin’ after his supper. If he knew as much about you as I do, you’d be in limbo afore you ked get into your bed. I needn’t tell you thar’s a reward offered; for you seed that yourself in the newspaper. Two thousand dollars for you, an’ five hundred dollars for the fellow as I’ve seed about along wi’ you, and who I’d already figured up as bein’ jailer Joe Harkness. Johnny, an’ a good many more, would be glad to go halves with me, for tellin’ them only half of what I now know. I ain’t goin’ to betray you. I’ve my reasons for not. After what’s been said I reckon you can trust me?”
“I can,” rejoins the assassin, heaving a sigh of relief.
“All right, then,” resumes Borlasse; “we understand one another. But it won’t do to stay palaverin hyar any longer. Let’s go up to my bedroom. We’ll be safe there; and I’ve got a bottle of whisky, the best stuff for a nightcap. Over that we can talk things straight, without any one havin’ the chance to set them crooked. Come along!”
Darke, without protest, accepts the invitation. He dares not do otherwise. It sounds more like a command. The man extending it has now full control over him; can deliver him to justice – have him dragged to a jail.
Chapter Thirty Four.
“Will you be one of us?”
Once inside his sleeping apartment, Borlasse shuts the door, points out a chair to his invited guest, and plants himself upon another. With the promised bottle of whisky between them, he resumes speech.
“I’ve asked you, Quantrell, to be one o’ us. I’ve done it for your own good, as you ought to know without my tellin’ ye. Well; you asked me in return what that means?”
“Yes, I did,” rejoins Darke, speaking without purpose.
“It means, then,” continues Borlasse, taking a gulp out of his glass, “that me, an’ the others you’ve been drinking with, air as good a set of fellows as ever lived. That we’re a cheerful party, you’ve seen for yourself. What’s passed this night ain’t nowheres to the merry times we spend upon the prairies out in Texas – for it’s in Texas we live.”
“May I ask, Mr Borlasse, what business you follow?”
“Well; when we’re engaged in regular business, it’s mostly horse-catchin’. We rope wild horses, mustangs, as they’re called; an’ sometimes them that ain’t jest so wild. We bring ’em into the settlements for sale. For which reason we pass by the name of mustangers. Between whiles, when business isn’t very brisk, we spend our time in some of the Texas towns – them what’s well in to’rds the Rio Grande, whar there’s a good sprinklin’ of Mexikins in the population. We’ve some rare times among the Mexikin girls, I kin assure you. You’ll take Jim Borlasse’s word for that, won’t you?”
“I have no cause to doubt it.”
“Well, I needn’t say more, need I? I know, Quantrell, you’re fond of a pretty face yourself, with sloe-black eyes in it. You’ll see them among the Mexikin saynoritas, to your heart’s content. Enough o’ ’em, maybe, to make you forget the pair as war late glancin’ at you out of the hotel gallery.”
“Glancing at me?” exclaims Darke, showing surprise, not unmixed with alarm.
“Glancing at ye; strait custrut; them same eyes as inspired ye to do that little bit of shootin’, wi’ Charley Clancy for a target.”
“You think she saw me?” asks the assassin, with increasing uneasiness.
“Think! I’m sure of it. More than saw – she recognised ye. I could tell that from the way she shot back into the shadow. Did ye not notice it yourself?”
“No,” rejoins Darke, the monosyllable issuing mechanically from his lips, while a shiver runs through his frame.
His questioner, observing these signs, continues, —
“T’ike my advice, and come with us fellows to Texas. Before you’re long there, the Mexikin girls will make you stop moping about Miss Armstrong. After the first fandango you’ve been at, you won’t care a straw for her. Believe me, you’ll soon forget her.”
“Never!” exclaims Darke, in the fervour of his passion – thwarted though it has been – forgetting the danger he is in.
“If that’s your detarmination,” returns Borlasse, “an’ you’ve made up your mind to keep that sweetheart in sight, you won’t be likely to live long. As sure as you’re sittin’ thar, afore breakfast time to-morrow mornin’ the town of Naketosh ’ll be too hot to hold ye.”
Darke starts from his chair, as if it had become too hot.
“Keep cool, Quantrell!” counsels the Texan. “No need for ye to be scared at what I’m sayin’. Thar’s no great danger jest yet. There might be, if you were in that chair, or this room, eight hours later. I won’t be myself, not one. For I may as well tell ye, that Jim Borlasse, same’s yourself, has reasons for shiftin’ quarters from the Choctaw Chief. And so, too, some o’ the fellows we’ve been drinkin’ with. We’ll all be out o’ this a good hour afore sun-up. Take a friend’s advice, and make tracks along wi’ us. Will you?”
Darke still hesitates to give an affirmative answer. His love for Helen Armstrong – wild, wanton passion though it be – is the controlling influence of his life. It has influenced him to follow her thus far, almost as much as the hope of escaping punishment for his crime. And though knowing, that the officers of justice are after him, he clings to the spot where she is staying, with that fascination which keeps the fox by the kennel holding the hounds. The thought of leaving her behind – perhaps never to see her again – is more repugnant than the spectre of a scaffold!
The Texan guesses the reason of his irresolution. More than this, he knows he has the means to put an end to it. A word will be sufficient; or, at most, a single speech. He puts it thus —
“If you’re detarmined to stick by the apron-strings o’ Miss Armstrong, you’ll not do that by staying here in Naketosh. Your best place, to be near her, will be along with me.”
“How so, Mr Borlasse?” questions Darke, his eyes opening to a new light. “Why do you say that?”
“You ought to know, without my tellin’ you – a man of your ’cuteness, Quantrell! You say you can never forget the older of that pair o’ girls. I believe you; and will be candid, too, in sayin’, no more is Jim Borlasse like to forget the younger. I thought nothin’ could ’a fetched that soft feelin’ over me. ’Twant likely, after what I’ve gone through in my time. But she’s done it – them blue eyes of hers; hanged if they hain’t! Then, do you suppose that I’m going to run away from, and lose sight o’ her and them? No; not till I’ve had her within these arms, and tears out o’ them same peepers droppin’ on my cheeks. That is, if she take it in the weepin’ way.”
“I don’t understand,” stammers Darke.
“You will in time,” rejoins the ruffian; “that is, if you become one o’ us, and go where we’re a-goin’. Enough now for you to be told that, there you will find your sweetheart!”
Without waiting to watch the effect of his last words, the tempter continues —
“Now, Phil Quantrell, or Dick Darke, as in confidence I may call ye, are you willin’ to be one o’ us?”
“I am.”
“Good! That’s settled. An’ your comrade, Harkness; I take it, he’ll go, too, when told o’ the danger of staying behind; not that he appears o’ much account, anyway. Still, among us mustangers, the more the merrier; and, sometimes we need numbers to help in the surroundin’ o’ the horses. He’ll go along, won’t he?”
“Anywhere, with me.”
“Well, then, you’d better step into his bedroom, and roust him up. Both of ye must be ready at once. Slip out to the stable, an’ see to the saddles of your horses. You needn’t trouble about settlin’ the tavern bill. That’s all scored to me; we kin fix the proportions of it afterward. Now, Quantrell, look sharp; in twenty minutes, time, I expect to find you an’ Harkness in the saddle, where you’ll see ten o’ us others the same.”
Saying this, the Texan strides out into the corridor, Darke preceding him. In the dimly-lighted passage they part company, Borlasse opening door after door of several bedrooms, ranged on both sides of it; into each, speaking a word, which, though only in whisper, seems to awake a sleeper as if a cannon were discharged close to his ears. Then succeeds a general shuffling, as of men hastily putting on coats and boots, with an occasional grunt of discontent at slumber disturbed; but neither talking nor angry protest. Soon, one after another, is seen issuing forth from his sleeping apartment, skulking along the corridor, out through the entrance door at back, and on towards the stable.
Presently, they fetch their horses forth, saddled and bridled. Then, leaping upon their backs, ride silently off under the shadow of the trees; Borlasse at their head, Quantrell by his side, Harkness among those behind.
Almost instantly they are in the thick forest which comes close up to the suburbs of Natchitoches; the Choctaw Chief standing among trees never planted by the hand of man.
The wholesale departure appearing surreptitious, is not unobserved. Both the tavern Boniface and his bar-keeper witness it, standing in the door as their guests go off; the landlord chuckling at the large pile of glittering coins left behind; Johnny scratching his carroty poll, and saying, —
“Be japers! they intind clearin’ that fellow Quantrell out. He won’t long be throubled wid that shinin’ stuff as seems burnin’ the bottom out av his pocket. I wudn’t be surrprized if they putt both him an’ ’tother fool past tillin’ tales afore ayther sees sun. Will, boss, it’s no bizness av ours.”
With this self-consolatory remark, to which the “boss” assents, Johnny proceeds to shut and lock the tavern door. Soon after the windows of the Choctaw Chief show lightless, its interior silent, the moonbeams shining upon its shingled roof peacefully and innocently, as though it had never sheltered robber, and drunken talk or ribald blasphemy been heard under it.
So, till morning’s dawn; till daylight; till the sun is o’ertopping the trees. Then is it surrounded by angry men; its wooden walls re-echoing their demand for admittance.
They are the local authorities of the district; the sheriff of Natchitoches with his posse of constables, and a crowd of people accompanying. Among them are Colonel Armstrong and the Creole, Dupré; these instigating the movement; indeed, directing it.
Ah knew, from yesterday’s newspaper, of the murder committed near Natchez, as also of the murderer having broken jail. Only this morning have they learnt that the escaped criminal has been seen in the streets of their town. From an early hour they have been scouring these in search of him; and, at length, reached the Choctaw Chief – the place where he should be found, if found at all.
On its doors being opened, they discover traces of him. No man named Darke has been there, but one calling himself Quantrell, with another, who went by the name of Walsh.
As, in this case, neither the landlord nor bar-keeper have any interest in screening that particular pair of their late guests, they make no attempt to do so; but, on the contrary, tell all they know about them; adding, how both went away with a number of other gentlemen, who paid their tavern bills, and took departure at an early hour of the morning.
The description of the other “gentlemen” is not so particularly given, because not so specially called for. In that of Quantrell and Walsh, Colonel Armstrong, without difficulty, identifies Richard Darke and the jailer, Joe Harkness.
He, sheriff, constables, crowd, stand with countenances expressing defeat – disappointment. They have reached the Choctaw Chief a little too late. They know nothing of Borlasse, or how he has baffled them. They but believe, that, for the second time, the assassin of Charles Clancy has eluded the grasp of justice.
Chapter Thirty Five.
A ghost going its rounds
It is nearly a month since the day of Clancy’s death; still the excitement caused by it, though to some extent subsided, has not died out. Curiosity and speculation are kept alive by the fact of the body not having been found. For it has not. Search has been made everywhere for miles around. Field and forest, creeks, ponds, swamp, and river, have all been traversed and interrogated, in vain. All have refused to surrender up the dead.
That Clancy is dead no one has a doubt. To say nothing of the blood spilt beside his abandoned hat and gun, with the other circumstances attendant, there is testimony of a moral nature, to many quite as convincing.
Alive he would long since have returned home, at thought of what his mother must be suffering. He was just the man to do that, as all who knew him are aware. Even wounded and crippled, if able to crawl, it would be to the side of the only woman at such a crisis he should care for.
Though it is now known that he cared for another, no one entertains a thought of his having gone off after her. It would not be in keeping with his character, any more than with the incidents and events that have conspired to make the mystery. Days pass, and it still remains one.
The sun rises and sets, without throwing any light upon it. Conjecture can do nothing to clear it up; and search, over and over unsuccessful, is at length abandoned.
If people still speculate upon how the body of the murdered man has been disposed of, there is no speculation as to who was his murderer, or how the latter made escape.
The treason of the jail-keeper explains this – itself accounted for by Ephraim Darke having on the previous day paid a visit to his son in the cell, and left with him a key that ere now has opened many a prison door. Joe Harkness, a weak-witted fellow, long suspected of faithlessness, was not the man to resist the temptation with which his palm had been touched.
Since that day some changes have taken place in the settlement. The plantation late Armstrong’s has passed into the hands of a new proprietor – Darke having disposed of it – while the cottage of the Clancys, now ownerless, stays untenanted. Unfurnished too: for the bailiff has been there, and a bill of sale, which covered its scant plenishing, farm-stock, implements and utensils, has swept all away.
For a single day there was a stir about the place, with noise corresponding, when the chattels were being disposed of by public auction. Then the household gods of the decayed Irish gentleman were knocked down to the highest bidder, and scattered throughout the district. Rare books, pictures, and other articles, telling of refined taste, with some slight remnants of bijouterie, were carried off to log-cabins, there to be esteemed in proportion to the prices paid for them. In fine, the Clancy cottage, stripped of everything, has been left untenanted. Lone as to the situation in which it stands, it is yet lonelier in its desolation. Even the dog, that did such service in pointing out the criminality of him who caused all the ruin, no longer guards its enclosures, or cheers them with his familiar bark. The faithful animal, adopted by Simeon Woodley, has found a home in the cabin of the hunter.
It is midnight; an hour still and voiceless in Northern climes, but not so in the Southern. Far from it in the State of Mississippi. There the sun’s excessive heat keeps Nature alert and alive, even at night, and in days of December.
Though night, it is not December, but a date nearer Spring. February is written on the heading of letters, and this, a Spring month on the Lower Mississippi, has commenced making its imprint on the forest trees. Their buds have already burst, some showing leaves fully expanded, others of still earlier habit bedecked with blossoms. Birds, too, awaking from a short winter’s silence, pour forth their amorous lays, filling glade and grove with music, that does not end with the day; for the mock-bird, taking up the strain, carries it on through the hours of night; so well counterfeiting the notes of his fellow-songsters, one might fancy them awake – still singing.
Not so melodious are other voices disturbing the stillness of the Southern night. Quite the opposite are the croaking of frogs, the screeching of owls, the jerking call of tree-crickets, and the bellowing of the alligator. Still, the ear accustomed to such sounds is not jarred by them. They are but the bass notes, needed to complete the symphony of Nature’s concert.
In the midst of this mélange, – the hour, as already stated, midnight – a man, or something bearing man’s semblance, is seen gliding along the edge of the cypress swamp, not far from the place where Charles Clancy fell.
After skirting the mud-flat for a time, the figure – whether ghost or human – turns face toward the tract of lighter woodland, extending between the thick timber and cleared ground of the plantations.
Having traversed this, the nocturnal wayfarer comes within sight of the deserted cottage, late occupied by the Clancys.
The moonlight, falling upon his face, shows it to be white. Also, that his cheeks are pallid, with eyes hollow and sunken, as from sickness – some malady long-endured, and not yet cured. As he strides over fallen logs, or climbs fences stretching athwart his course, his tottering step tells of a frame enfeebled.
When at length clear of the woods, and within sight of the untenanted dwelling, he stops, and for a time remains contemplating it. That he is aware of its being unoccupied is evident, from the glance with which he regards it.
His familiarity with the place is equally evident. On entering the cottage grounds, which he soon after does, through, some shrubbery at the back, he takes the path leading up to the house, without appearing to have any doubt about its being the right one.
For all this he makes approach with caution, looking suspiciously around – either actually afraid, or not desiring to be observed.
There is little likelihood of his being so. At that hour all in the settlement should be asleep. The house stands remote, more than a mile from its nearest neighbour. It is empty; has been stripped of its furniture, of everything. What should any one be doing there?
What is he doing there? A question which would suggest itself to one seeing him; with interest added on making note of his movements.
There is no one to do either; and he continues on to the house, making for its back door, where there is a porch, as also a covered way, leading to a log-cabin – the kitchen.
Even as within the porch, he tries the handle of the door which at a touch goes open. There is no lock, or if there was, it has not been thought worth while to turn the key in it. There are no burglars in the backwoods. If there were, nothing in that house need tempt them.
Its nocturnal visitor enters under its roof. The ring of his footsteps, though he still treads cautiously, gives out a sad, solemn sound. It is in unison with the sighs that come, deep-drawn, from his breast; at times so sonorous as to be audible all over the house.
He passes from room to room. There are not many – only five of them. In each he remains a few moments, gazing dismally around. But in one – that which was the widow’s sleeping chamber – he tarries a longer time; regarding a particular spot – the place formerly occupied by a bed. Then a sigh, louder than any that has preceded it, succeeded by the words, low-muttered: —
“There she must have breathed her last!”
After this speech, more sighing, accompanied by still surer signs of sorrow – sobs and weeping. As the moonbeams, pouring in through the open window, fall upon his face, their pale silvery light sparkles upon tears, streaming from hollow eyes, chasing one another down emaciated cheeks.
After surrendering himself some minutes to what appears a very agony of grief, he turns out of the sleeping chamber; passes through the narrow hall-way; and on into the porch. Not now the back one, but that facing front to the road.
On the other side of this is an open tract of ground, half cleared, half woodland; the former sterile, the latter scraggy. It seems to belong to no one, as if not worth claiming, or cultivating. It has been, in fact, an appanage of Colonel Armstrong’s estate, who had granted it to the public as the site for a schoolhouse, and a common burying-ground – free to all desiring to be instructed, or needing to be interred. The schoolhouse has disappeared, but the cemetery is still there – only distinguishable from the surrounding terrain by some oblong elevations, having the well-known configuration of graves. There are in all about a score of them; some having a plain head-board – a piece of painted plank, with letters rudely limned, recording the name and age of him or her resting underneath.
Time and the weather have turned most of them greyish, with dates decayed, and names scarcely legible. But there is one upon which the paint shows fresh and white; in the clear moonlight gleaming like a meteor.
He who has explored the deserted dwelling, stands for a while with eyes directed on this recently erected memorial. Then, stepping down from the porch, he passes through the wicket-gate; crosses the road; and goes straight towards it, as though a hand beckoned him thither.
When close up, he sees it to be by a grave upon which the herbage has not yet grown.
The night is a cold one – chill for that Southern clime. The dew upon the withered grass of the grave turf is almost congealed into hoar frost, adding to its ghostly aspect.
The lettering upon the head-board is in shadow, the moon being on the opposite side.
But stooping forward, so as to bring his eyes close to the slab, he is enabled to decipher the inscription.
It is the simplest form of memento – only a name, with the date of death —
“Caroline Clancy,
Died January 18 – ”
After reading it, a fresh sob bursts from his bosom, new tears start from his eyes, and he flings himself down upon the grave. Disregarding the dew, thinking nought of the night’s dullness, he stretches his arms over the cold turf, embracing it as though it were the warm body of one beloved!
For several minutes he remains in this attitude. Then, suddenly rising erect, as if impelled by some strong purpose, there comes from his lips, poured forth in wild passionate accent, the speeches: —
