It was the one through which I had
looked in August, 1862. There was the same door through which I had
burst in upon Fenwick and his companion.
I dismounted, threw my bridle over a stunted shrub, and approached the
house. Suddenly I stopped.
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.
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