At ten paces from me, in a little group of cedars, a man was kneeling on a grave, covered with tangled grass. At the rattle of my sabre he rose, turned round--it was Mordaunt. In a moment we had exchanged a pressure of the hand; and then turning to the grave:-- “That is the last resting-place of poor Achmed,” he said; adding, in his deep, grave voice:-- “You know how he loved me, Surry.” “And how you loved _him_, Mordaunt. I can understand your presence at his grave, my dear friend.” Mordaunt sighed, then saluted Mohun, who approached. “This spot,” he said, “is well known to Colonel Surry and myself, Mohun.” Then turning to me, he added:-- “I found a melancholy spectacle awaiting me here.” “Other than Achmed’s grave?” “Yes; come, and I will show you.” And he led the way into the house. As I entered the squalid and miserable mansion, the sight which greeted me made me recoil. On a wretched bed lay the corpse of a woman; and at a glance, I recognized the woman Parkins, who had played so tragic a part in the history of Mordaunt. The face was hideously attenuated; the eyes were open and staring; the lower jaw had fallen. In the rigid and bony hand was a dry and musty crust of bread. “She must have starved to death here,” said Mordaunt, gazing at the corpse. And, approaching it, he took the crust from the fingers. As he did so, the teeth seemed grinning at him. “Poor creature!” he said; “this crust was probably all that remained to her of the price of her many crimes! I pardon her, and will have her buried!” As Mordaunt turned away, I saw him look at the floor. “There is Achmed’s blood,” he said, pointing to a stain on the plank; “and the other is the blood of Fenwick, who was buried near his victim.” “I remember,” I murmured. And letting my chin fall upon my breast, I returned in thought to the strange scene which the spot recalled so vividly. “There is but one other actor in that drama of whom I know nothing, Mordaunt!” “You mean--” “Violet Grafton.” Mordaunt raised his head quickly. His eyes glowed with a serene sweetness. “She is my wife,” he said; “the joy and sunlight of my life! I no longer read _Les Misérables_, and sneer at my species--I no longer scowl, Surry, and try to rush against the bullet that is to end me. God has rescued a lost life in sending me one of his angels; and it was she who made me promise to come hither and pray on the grave of our dear Achmed!” Mordaunt turned toward the door as he spoke, and inviting me to ride with him, left the mansion. As I had agreed to stay with Mohun, I was obliged to decline. Five minutes afterward he had mounted, and with a salute, the tall form disappeared in the forest. We set out in turn, and were soon at Mohun’s bivouac. XXIV. A NIGHT BIRD. I shared Mohun’s blankets, and was waked by the sun shining in my face. My companion had disappeared, but I had scarcely risen when he was seen approaching at full gallop.