He knew what his brother had done. He could conceive the revenge to
his brother's amorous hand. He listened till the whole tale was told;
till the death of the girl in the pond at home--back in her own little
home. Then the rest of the story shook him.
"The verdict of the coroner's court was that he was shot by his own
hand--by accident," said Denzil. "That was the coroner's verdict, but
yes! Well, he was shot by his own gun, but not by his own hand. There was
some one who loved the girl, took toll. The world did not know, and does
not know, but you know--you--you, the brother of him that spoiled a
woman's life! Do you think such a man should live? She was the sweetest
girl that ever lived, and she loved me! She told me the truth--and he
died by his own gun--in the woods; but it wasn't accident--it wasn't
accident--but no! The girl had gone, but behind her was some one that
loved her, and he settled it once for all."
As he had told the story, Denzil's body seemed to contract; his face took
on an insane expression. It was ghastly pale, but his eyes ware aflame.
His arms stretched out with grim realism as he told of the death of
Almeric Tarboe.
"You've got the whole truth, m'sieu'. I've told it you at last.
Pages:
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145