In the bottom of the boat, lying easily on his back, the rowers found Allan Dorris, dead; his eyes closed as if in disturbed sleep, and his face upturned to the heavens. His right hand was gripped on the side of the boat, as if his last wish had been to pull himself into a sitting posture, and look toward the town where his faithful wife was watching for his return. The flash of the torches made the face look ghastly and white, and there was a stain of blood on his lips. Those who looked upon the face saw in it an expression of regret to die, which remained with them as long as they lived; they spoke of it tenderly to their children, who grew up and gave their own children descriptions of Allan Dorris's pitiful face as he lay dead in his boat on the night when the waters of the great flood began to recede. It is said that the face of a sorrowing man looks peaceful in death; it may be equally true that death stamps unmistakable regret on the face of its victim who is not ready. O, pitiless Death, you might have spared this man, who was just beginning, and taken one of the mourning thousands who watch for you through the night, and are sad because of your long delay. This man desired so much to live that his white face seems to say now: "I cannot die; I dread it--Oh, how terrible it would be to die now!" And his eyes are wet with tears; a touching monument of his dread of thee! The rough men reverently uncovered their heads as Thompson Benton looked at the dead man in stupefaction, but when he had recovered, he lifted the body gently up, and made a hasty examination. Laying it down again, he looked at the men, and said in a tone which indicated that he had long expected it,-- "Shot in the back." Lashing their boats together, the rowers gulled back to town without speaking a word; that containing the body of Allan Dorris towing behind, the pathetic face looking up to heaven, as if asking forgiveness. The stars came out as the rowers pursued their journey back to the town, and the storm was over. Peace to the pathetic dust! In the town on the hill, where the twinkling lights mingle with the stars, waits a weeping woman who knew Allan Dorris well; let her opinion of the dead prevail, and not that of the gossiping winds which have been whispering into the ears of the people. CHAPTER XXI. LITTLE BEN. In answer to a note requesting his presence at The Locks, Silas Davy hurried towards that part of the town as soon as he found relief from his duties at the hotel, regretting as he went along that Mr. Whittle was not ahead of him with his gun, for late events had not been of a cheerful nature, and he felt the need of better company than little Ben, who dragged his weary frame into the hotel kitchen a few minutes before Silas started.