The face was hideously attenuated; the eyes were
open and staring; the lower jaw had fallen. In the rigid and bony hand
was a dry and musty crust of bread.
"She must have starved to death here," said Mordaunt, gazing at the
corpse. And, approaching it, he took the crust from the fingers. As he
did so, the teeth seemed grinning at him.
"Poor creature!" he said; "this crust was probably all that remained to
her of the price of her many crimes! I pardon her, and will have her
buried!"
As Mordaunt turned away, I saw him look at the floor.
"There is Achmed's blood," he said, pointing to a stain on the plank;
"and the other is the blood of Fenwick, who was buried near his
victim."
"I remember," I murmured. And letting my chin fall upon my breast, I
returned in thought to the strange scene which the spot recalled so
vividly.
"There is but one other actor in that drama of whom I know nothing,
Mordaunt!"
"You mean--"
"Violet Grafton."
Mordaunt raised his head quickly. His eyes glowed with a serene
sweetness.
"She is my wife," he said; "the joy and sunlight of my life! I no
longer read _Les Miserables_, and sneer at my species--I no longer
scowl, Surry, and try to rush against the bullet that is to end me. God
has rescued a lost life in sending me one of his angels; and it was she
who made me promise to come hither and pray on the grave of our dear
Achmed!"
Mordaunt turned toward the door as he spoke, and inviting me to ride
with him, left the mansion.
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