CXXX.
LOVE AND DEATH.
MORDAUNT struck the spurs into his horse as I uttered these
words, and the powerful animal thundered on over the dark and
narrow road, between the walls of thicket rising, in the dim
moonlight, upon either side.
I led the way, and, as before, on that night of April, just two
years before, when I passed over the same ground, the whippoorwills
cried in the thicket—the owl's unearthly screech was
heard from the tangled depths—and the scraggy arms of the
gnarled and stunted black-oaks resembled goblin hands about to
clutch the nocturnal intruders on this land of mystery, and bear
them away into the weird recesses of the Wilderness.
Mordaunt never relaxed his headlong speed, and the quick
pants of his black charger were ever at my ear, driving me onward.
But I was as wild with anxiety almost as himself. The
thought, that Violet Grafton was a helpless victim in the hands
of the monster who had entrapped her, drove me like a goad.
With bloody spurs I forced my weary horse to his utmost speed,
trembling as I went on, with a vague apprehension of some
monstrous outrage, some unspeakable infamy.
Mordaunt was half a length behind me, sweeping on like an
incarnate fate. Wrapped in his dark cloak, upon his horse, as
black as night, ho resembled the wild huntsman of the German
legends, following close upon his prey.
“Are we near the place!” he said, hoarsely, at my ear.
“Yes—yonder it is!”
“I mean to kill him, this time, Surry! Not the wealth of
both hemispheres could buy his blood of me, or make me spare
him!”
“And I won't plead for him!”
“It would do no good! Is that the place?”
“Yes, we have arrived.”
And, leaping the low brushwood fence, I spurred up the hill,
closely followed by Mordaunt and Achmed. The face of the
Moor, as the moonlight fell upon it, wore a wild and splendid
look, such as no words can describe. Call it the ferocity of the
tiger, the thirst of a panther for the blood of the wolf. The
fierce blood of the desert-born flamed in that regard, and made
the countenance glow as though the glare of a great conflagration
were upon it.
In three bounds our horses reached the house, through the
shutters of which a light glimmered. Mordaunt was on his feet
in a single instant, and had rushed to the door!
With one blow of his ponderous shoulder he burst it nearly
from its hinges—it flew open; and, at the same moment, a loud
explosion was heard, and a bullet whistled past me.
At a bound I reached the door of the apartment, which I
knew so well—and here is the scene which met my eyes:
Fenwick, pale, emaciated, with eyes bloodshot and sunken,
standing erect in the centre of the apartment—pistol in hand;
and, in one corner, Miss Grafton, with dishevelled hair, trembling
and sobbing, as she endeavored to tear herself from the iron
arms of the woman Parkins, who was trying to drag her away.
Such was the scene which a single glance took in. Then to
that pause succeeded the roar of the lion bounding on his prey.
Mordaunt, sabre in hand, sprang straight at Fenwick, and, in
another instant, the sharp point would have, pierced his heart.
But the blood of his bitter foe was not to be shred by hls own
hand. Suddenly, a slender form passed him at a single bound;
a gleaming poniard was seen to rise and fall; and Fenwick fell,
pierced through the heart by the dagger of Achmed.
As he staggered and fell, a loud explosion was heard, and
Achmed uttered a low cry. In falling, Fenwick had fired his
pistol, and the ball had passed through Achmed's breast.
Fenwick rolled on the floor, the blood spouting over the hilt
of the poniard, which remained buried in his breast. Then, with
a last convulsive effort, he clutched a chair, rose erect, and with
clinched hands, raised above his head, exclaimed, looking at
Mordaunt:
“You conquer!—I die!—but beyond the grave—in death as
in life—hate! hate! hate! to all eternity!”
As the words left his lips, the glare faded from his bloodshot
eyes; his hands, madly clutching at the air, fell powerless; a
bloody foam came to his lips; and he fell at full length, dead.
Within two paces of him, Mordaunt was holding in his arms
the dying form of Achmed, whose head was resting on his
bosom.
A few low words, in Arabic, to which Mordaunt replied with
omething like a groan—then the young Moor's face was illuminated
with a radiant smile, and his eyes turned toward Violet
Grafton. The woman Parkins had disappeared.
Dragging himself along, Achned reached her feet, and, taking
one of her hands, pressed it closely to his lips, murmuring some
faint words, as he did so, in his native tongue.
“He says he is happy, for he dies for you!” exclaimed the
deep voice of Mordaunt, as he stood with arms folded across his
heaving bosom.
Achmed seemed to understand that his words were explained,
and, again pressing a long, lingering kiss upon the girl's hand,
fell back, with the pallor of death upon his face.
She caught his fainting form, and, for a moment, he was
clasped in her arms—his head rested upon her bosom.
His eyes opened, and he saw her face wet with tears, as it bent
above him. That spectacle made his pale cheeks flush, his eyes
glow for the last time on earth.
Turning faintly toward Mordaunt, with a glance of unspeakable
affection, he murmured some words, and stretched out his hand.
Mordaunt grasped it, with a strange tremor in his stalwart
frame; and, with his other hand, Achmed took that of the girl,
and pressed it to his heart.
As he did so, a smile of unspeakable happiness lit up his face;
his lips uttered a faint murmur; and, falling back in the arms
of the woman whom he had loved, he died, with his head upon
her breast.
