THE TWO PAPERS.

Darke had spoken in a low, dull, gloomy voice; and something like a shudder had pa.s.sed through his frame as he painted, in brief words, the sombre scene. This emotion now seemed even to grow deeper. Was there good left in this wild animal?

"That knife," he continued, "was very nearly the means of hanging an innocent man. It belonged to a gentleman of the neighborhood who had accidentally laid it on the table of the clerk's office, a few moments before I, as accidentally, picked it up--and this gentleman had just had angry words with--_him_--about a trifle. What made things worse was that they had long been enemies--and when _he_ was found there, dead in the bushes, next day, the owner of the knife found near the body was arrested as the murderer.

"Well, he went to jail, and the trial was coming on soon. The evidence against him was strong. He was the known enemy of--Mr. Conway. He had quarrelled with him on that day, and his knife was found by--the body--on which the money had not been touched. A robber, you see, would have taken the money; as it was untouched the crime must have been committed by a personal enemy. Who was that enemy? The prisoner--whose name was Davenant!

"Well, the trial was near. I had gone back to the court-house on _that day_, and was still hanging around the place. What was I to do? I had to determine whether I would let an innocent man be hanged for my crime, or go to the sheriff and say, 'release the prisoner--I am the murderer.' That was rather more than I was ready for, and I hit on a means which might serve. The knife was important evidence--the _most_ important--and I was in the clerk's office one day, hanging round and listening, when I saw the sheriff put the knife in a drawer, to have it ready near court on the day of trial. Well, that night I broke into the court-house--stole the knife--and waited to see what would occur on the trial.

"As the day drew near I felt like a real murderer, and had the prisoner all the time before my eyes, hanging on a gallows. I drank harder than ever, but I could not get that picture out of my mind. I saw worse pictures than before. So I determined what to do. I sat down, wrote a full confession of the murder, which I signed; and a friend of mine carried this to the prisoner's wife. I had put on it 'In haste, this will save Mr. Davenant's life'--and his wife carried it, at full speed, with her own hands to the court-house, where she arrived just as the jury had retired.

"The prisoner opened and read it. When he had finished it, he folded it up and put it in his pocket. As he did so, the jury came in with a verdict of 'Not guilty'--and he went out of the court-room accompanied by a crowd of friends.

"So he was cleared, you see--without using the doc.u.ment which I had written. That was in his pocket; was of no further use; and as it might become dangerous I entered his house that night, broke open the desk in which he kept his private papers, and took this one out, reading and making sure that it was the genuine doc.u.ment, by the light of the moon which streamed in at the window.

"I was still looking at the paper, when a noise behind me attracted my attention, and turning round I saw--Mr. Davenant. He had heard the noise I made in breaking open the secretary; put on his dressing-gown; and coming down, pistol in hand, was on me before I knew it. The few minutes that followed were rather angry, and noisy. Unexpectedly, Mr.

Davenant did not fire on me. After an interchange of compliments, I put the paper in my pocket, pa.s.sed out through the window, and mounting my horse, rode away.

"After that I went far, and saw many persons. Among the rest you, madam; and our matrimonial life has been chequered!

"A word to you, now," he added, turning toward Swartz. "I shut you up here to starve you to death because you were trusted and have betrayed me. Listen, and I will tell you how. You are greedy for gold, and this greed has tempted you to an act which will be your destruction. In Pennsylvania, one night, just before the battle of Gettysburg, you were at my house, and stole a paper from madam, who was collecting every thing to hide it from the enemy. No matter how I know that; I have made the discovery, and you deny it--refusing to deliver up that paper, which you state you never had, and consequently have not in your possession. In saying that, you lied! You stole that paper, and promise yourself that you will sell it for a large sum of money--you have already been bargaining, and have tried to finish the business.

"Well, that paper is interesting--to madam at least; and she has kept it with care from the eyes of the very person you would sell it to!

Folded with it was another paper which is no less valuable to me. Thus, you see, that we are interested; and we will probably be informed in a day from this time where to find both the doc.u.ments--as you will then be starving, and will reveal every thing!

"You think me jesting, perhaps--you imagine I will spare you. Undeceive yourself--your life is a small matter compared with these two papers.

"One is the certificate of madam's marriage with your very humble servant; the other the letter which I took from Mr. Davenant's desk that night, in which I confess myself the--well! the murderer--of George Conway!"

x.x.xII.

A PISTOL-SHOT.

Darke's deep and gloomy voice ceased to resound, and for a moment the silence of the apartment was only disturbed by the slight creaking made by the chair of the woman, as she quietly rocked backward and forward.

Swartz had risen to his feet while Darke was uttering his final words.

With clasped hands, and trembling lips, he was about to throw himself upon his knees;--when suddenly a shot resounded without, a cry was heard, and then this was succeeded by rapid firing, mingled with hoof-strokes, in the immediate vicinity of the house.

Darke rose to his feet, and in two strides was at the window.

"An attack!" he exclaimed. "Can the friends of this carrion be trying to catch me!"

And springing toward the door, he tore it open.

Suddenly, another thought seemed to come to him. Returning at a bound to the side of Swartz, he seized him by the throat, dragged him through the door, and rushed down the steps, still dragging the unfortunate man.

As he pa.s.sed me, I drew my revolver and fired on him, but the ball did not strike him. Then I saw the woman dart past like a shadow. When Nighthawk and myself reached the foot of the stairs, she and Darke were already in the saddle.

The collar of Swartz was still in his clutch. He seemed determined to bear him off at the risk of being himself captured; for a second glance showed me that a party of Confederate cavalry was rushing headlong toward the house, led by an officer whom I made out to be Mohun.

Darke saw that the small force on picket could not contend with the attacking party.

By the starlight, I could see his face, as he glared over his shoulder at Mohun, whom he had evidently recognized. An expression of profound hate was in that glance; a hoa.r.s.e growl issued from his lips; and I distinguished the low words addressed to Swartz, whom he was dragging on beside his horse.

"So, you are rescued, you think! You have laid this trap for me, jailbird!"

He drew his pistol as he spoke, and placed it close to the unhappy man's temple. I had mine in my hand, and, aiming at Darke, fired.

It was too late. The bullet did not strike him; and the report of his own weapon followed that of mine like an echo.

Swartz staggered back, threw up his hands, and uttering a wild cry, fell at full length upon the ground.

The scene which followed was as brief as this tragedy. Mohun charged, at the head of his men, and drove the picket force before him. In five minutes the whole party were dispersed, or captured.

Darke had escaped with the gray woman, in the darkness.

The pursuit did not continue far. The Federal lines were near; and Mohun soon recalled his men.

Grasping me cordially by the hand, he exclaimed:--

"Well, Surry! the prisoner! Where is Swartz?"

I pointed to the spot where his body lay, and went thither with Mohun.

Swartz lay perfectly dead, in a pool of blood. Darke had blown out his brains.

x.x.xIII.

PRESTON HAMPTON.

An hour afterward the body of the unfortunate man had been buried, and I had returned with Mohun and Nighthawk to the opposite bank of the Rowanty.

I had never seen Mohun so gloomy. He scarcely uttered a word during the whole march back; and when I announced my intention to spend the night at the house of Mr. Alibi, as the long tramp had wearied me out, he scarcely invited me to his head-quarters, and when I declined, did not urge me. Something evidently weighed heavily on the mind of Mohun, and a few moment's reflection explained the whole to me.

He had conversed rapidly and apart with Nighthawk near the lonely house; and his gloom had dated from that conversation. Nighthawk had evidently explained every thing: the cause of Swartz's imprisonment; his statement in reference to the paper--and now that Swartz was dead, the hiding-place of the doc.u.ment seemed forever undiscoverable.

If the reader does not understand the terrible significance of this fact, and Mohun's consequent gloom, I promise that he shall comprehend all before very long.