University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.

We have witnessed the departure of our friend
Forrester from the place of his trysting. He went
forth with renewed confidence in the future, and
with a strong sentiment of hope enkindled in his
bosom. His course lay for the deep west—the
unopened forests and mighty waters of the Mississippi
valley. The sting was somewhat taken from
his conscience, and with a renewed desire of life,
and warmly anticipating its enjoyments, he began
to find, as he rode quietly along under the light
of the moon and through the bending foliage,
numberless apologies for his offences. The condition
of things generally underwent a change
strictly corresponding with that in the favour of
his affections. “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, half way 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 aerie, nestling with his brood.
These are the goodly texts of that 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 favoured 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 about his thoughts.

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 in advance of his progress.
He now rode carelessly, as one who mused—his
horse, not urged by its rider, became somewhat
careful of his vigour, and his gait was moderated
much from that which had marked his outset. He
had not long entered upon the trace through the 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 road in which we have
thought proper to find him, when his place upon

the same route was supplied by the pursuing
party, Rivers and Munro. They were both admirably
mounted, but 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 the knowledge
of this necessity, insisted upon a more moderated
and measured pace. Much against his own will,
Rivers assented, though his impatience frequently
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 honour 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 youngester, 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, endeavoured 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 hates or loves, 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 belongs 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
without seemingly 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 you 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 nature 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 favour
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 any thing 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 cannot be in any loathsomeness
which its presence occasions in your
mind, for we perceive the same boy destroying
with measured tortures 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
farther 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 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 court-house. 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 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 fruitful circumstance.
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, indoor,
domestic quality—inconsistent with enterprise or
great activity. There are no drones so perfect in
the world as the true orthodox. It is for this reason,
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 paroxysms 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 unsusceptible, it would seem, of the several
influences of heat and cold, wind and rain, which
at any other time would have driven 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 cannot 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 court-house: but, the
fact is, I was then but acquiring my education. I
was, for the first time, studying men, and the study
of rogues is not unaptly fitted to make one take up
the business. I found it to have that effect. But,
even at Gwinnett court-house—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 afterwards 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 Latin;—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 a 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 dreamt that they were 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 or
anger, and for a few moments gave no reply. 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
favoured—the successful rival:—he was but a
boy then—but I knew him, and saw then, what
neither of them saw, that they loved each other.
Look upon this picture, Walter—now, while the
moon streams through these branches upon it, and
wonder not that it maddened, and still maddens me,
to think, that for his smooth face, and stern affectation
of superiority, I was to be sacrificed and despised.
She was probably a year older 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.”

“How do you make that out? I do not understand
you.”

“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 station. But I
was denied my place. Society, guilty of favouritism

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
any thing 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 further 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, a waited 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, mental as well as physical, 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
pain, exclaimed—

“Ah, Munro, is that you?—I am so glad; but
I'm afraid you come too late. This is a sad jest!”

It was Forrester who spoke, and Munro would
have saved him; but Rivers, who had done himself
no injustice in the narrative which we have
already heard, rejected the more merciful suggestion.
The wounded man saw his action and heard
the controversy, and the few words he was enabled
to utter were those of prayer and entreaty.

“Save me, Wat—he will strike again—I have
done you no harm—I will do you none—and—
would live, Wat—would live—happy—Kate.”

He threw up his hands with fearful energy as he
beheld his murderer—from whom Munro had
wrested the weapon originally used—aiming a
second blow with the small hatchet which he always
wore. The interposition of Munro was without
avail; the sharp steel drove through, separating the
extended fingers of the fallen man as he threw
them up, and crushing and crunching deeply into
the scull. The unhappy woodman sank back,
without groan or further word, even as an ox beneath
the stunning stroke of the butcher.