He pa.s.sed within three feet of me, but did not perceive me, as I was concealed by one of the open venetians. Then he paused and listened.

The wind sighed in the foliage, and a distant watch-dog was barking--that was all. No other noise disturbed the silence of the July night.

Darke remained upon the portico for some moments, listening attentively. Then turned and re-entered the house. Through the window, I could see him make his appearance again in the illuminated apartment.

In response to the glances of inquiry from his companions he made a gesture only, but that said plainly:--

"Nothing is stirring. You can go on with your work."

In this, however, he was mistaken. Darke had scarcely re-entered the apartment, when I discerned the hoof-strokes of horses beyond the front gate--then the animals were heard leaping the low fence--a moment afterward two figures came on at full gallop, threw themselves from the saddle, and rapidly approached the house.

The rattle of a sabre which one of them wore attracted Darke's attention. He reached the door of the room at a single bound--but at the same instant the new comers rushed by me, and burst in.

As they pa.s.sed I recognized them. One was Mohun, the other Nighthawk.

XXII.

DARKE AND MOHUN.

What followed was instantaneous.

The adversaries were face to face, and each drew his pistol and fired at the same moment.

Neither was struck: they drew their swords; and, through the cloud of smoke filling the apartment, I could see Darke and Mohun close in, in a hand to hand encounter.

They were both excellent swordsmen, and the struggle was pa.s.sionate and terrible. Mohun's movements were those of the tiger springing upon his prey; but Darke met the attack with a coolness and phlegm which indicated unshrinking nerve; his expression seemed, even, to indicate that crossing swords with his adversary gave the swarthy giant extreme pleasure. His face glowed, and a flash darted from beneath the s.h.a.ggy eyebrows. I could see him smile; but the smile was strange.

From the adversaries my glance pa.s.sed quickly to the gray woman. She was leaning against the wall, and exhibited no emotion whatever; but the lurid blaze in the great dark eyes, as she looked at Mohun, clearly indicated that a storm was raging in her bosom. Opposite the woman stood Nighthawk--motionless, but grasping a pistol. As to Swartz, that worthy had profited by an open window near, and had glided through it and disappeared.

To return to the combatants. The pa.s.sionate encounter absorbed all my attention. Mohun and Darke were cutting at each other furiously. They seemed equally matched, and the result was doubtful. One thing only seemed certain--that in a few minutes one of the adversaries would be dead.

Such was the situation of affairs when shots were heard without, the clash of sabres followed, and the door behind Darke was burst open violently by his orderly, who rushed in, exclaiming:--

"Look out, colonel! The enemy are on you!"

As he uttered these words, the man drew a revolver and aimed at Mohun's breast.

Before he could fire, however, an explosion was heard, and I saw the man suddenly drop his weapon, which went off as it escaped from his nerveless grasp. Then he threw up his hands, reeled, took two uncertain steps backward, and fell at full length on the floor. Nighthawk had shot him through the heart.

All this had taken place in far less time than it has taken to write it. I had made violent efforts to break through the window; and finding this impossible, now ran to the door and burst into the apartment.

The singular scene was to have as singular a denouement.

Darke evidently realized the great danger which he ran, for the house was now surrounded, nearly, and his capture was imminent.

From the black eyes shot a glare of defiance, and advancing upon Mohun, he delivered a blow at him which nearly shattered his opponent's sword.

Mohun struck in turn, aiming a furious cut at Darke; but as he did so, he stumbled over the dead orderly, and nearly fell. For the moment he was at Darke's mercy.

I rushed forward, sword in hand, to ward off the mortal stroke which I was certain his adversary would deliver, but my intervention was useless.

Darke recoiled from his stumbling adversary, instead of striking at him. I could scarcely believe my own eyes, but the fact was unmistakable.

Then the Federal colonel looked around, and his eye fell upon the woman.

"Kill him!" she said, coldly. "Do not mind me!--only kill him!"

"No!" growled Darke. And seizing the woman in his arms:--

"They shall not take you prisoner!" he said.

And the swarthy Hercules pa.s.sed through the door in rear at a single bound, bearing off the woman like a feather.

A moment afterward the hoof-strokes of a horse were heard.

Darke had disappeared with the gray woman.

I turned to look at Mohun. He was standing perfectly motionless, and looking after Darke with a strange expression of gloom and astonishment.

"You are unhurt!" I said.

He turned quickly, and held out his hand.

"Slightly wounded--but I am not thinking of that."

"Of what, then?"

"I remember only one thing--that this man might have buried his sword in my heart, and did not."

An hour afterward the skirmish was over; I had explained my presence at the house to Mohun, parted with him, promising to see him soon again; and, mounted upon a fresh animal which Mohun presented to me from among those captured, was once more on my way to Gettysburg.

It was hard to realize that the scenes of the night were actual occurrences. They were more like dreams than realities.

XXIII.

GETTYSBURG.

I came in sight of Gettysburg at sunrise.

Gettysburg!--name instinct with so many tears, with so much mourning, with those sobs which tear their way from the human heart as the lava makes its way from the womb of the volcano!

There are words in the world's history whose very sound is like a sigh or a groan; places which are branded "accursed" by the moaning lips of mothers, wives, sisters, and orphans. Shadowy figures, gigantic and draped in mourning, seem to hover above these spots: skeleton arms with bony fingers point to the soil beneath, crowded with graves: from the eyes, dim and hollow, glare unutterable things: and the grin of the fleshless lips is the gibbering mirth of the corpse torn from its cerements, and erect, as though the last trump had sounded, and the dead had arisen. No fresh flowers bloom in these dreary spots; no merry birds twitter there; no streamlets lapse sweetly with musical murmurs beneath the waterflags or the drooping boughs of trees. See! the blighted and withered plants are like the deadly nightshade--true flowers of war, blooming, or trying to bloom, on graves! Hear the voices of the few birds--they are sad and discordant! See the trees--they are gnarled, spectral, and torn by cannon-b.a.l.l.s. Listen!