Flora Lyndsay; or, Passages in an Eventful Life, Vol. II.Moodie, Susanna
General
Flora Lyndsay; or, Passages in an Eventful Life, Vol. II.
Moodie, Susanna
Fiction
Hardened as I thought this ruffian had been for years, the big bright
drops coursed each other down his sunburnt cheeks; his large chest
heaved convulsively, and loud sobs awoke the lone echoes of the wood.
I could endure his agony no longer. "Martin," I said, in a low voice,
for the agitation that shook my whole frame nearly deprived me of the
power of utterance, "behave more like a man; were you an innocent man,
you could not be affected in this strange way."
"By ----, I am not innocent! Who said I was? But I again repeat I did
not kill him."
"Then Adam did?"
"No, no--it was his first attempt at murder." He stopped short. He had
committed himself.
"Why, Bill, your own words condemn you."
"Don't use them against us. I am mad. I don't know what I say."
"Hush. I hear steps approaching. Be quiet for one moment, while I untie
your hands, and I will give you a last chance for your life."
"Your frozen heart has thawed too late," he cried, with a hollow groan.
"The constables are already here, and I am a dead man."
He was right; Norton with the constables and a large body of men now
burst through the trees. I gladly consigned the prisoner to their
charge, while I proceeded with the rest of the party to the spot where
the murder had been committed. I knew that it would awaken suspicion for
me to remain behind, I therefore placed myself at the head of them; but
I would have given worlds to have remained behind. A few minutes brought
us to the fatal gate.
We gathered round the body in silence. Horror was depicted on every
countenance. Some who had known the 'Squire for years shed tears. I
could not; but I gladly buried my face in my handkerchief, to shut out
the dreadful spectacle. The moon, peering down between the branches of
the trees, looked full in the dead man's face. Those glassy upturned
eyes chilled my heart to stone with their fixed icy stare.
Oh! it is terrible to see a man so full of life and health but
yesterday, look thus.
"Is he quite dead?" said George Norton. "My poor dear master!--my good
generous master! Noah, lend a hand to raise him up."
With a deep groan I seconded his efforts, and the head of the murdered
man rested upon my knees. As I crouched beside him on the ground, a
viper was gnawing at my heart. I would have given my chance of an
eternity of bliss, which not many hours ago I had possessed as man's
only true inheritance, to have recalled the transactions of that
dreadful night.
"See, here is a wound in his breast," cried I. "He has not been shot,
but stabbed with a long sharp dirk or knife. He must have been taken
unawares, for he seems to have made no effort to defend himself."
"Here is his hat," cried another. "The back of it is all battered and
crushed in. He has been knocked down and then stabbed. Oh, that
Martin--that infernal villain!"
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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