On the right was an open door. I passed through it, and
found myself at the foot of a rough stairway, occupying half of a
narrow passage.
Ascending, not without more than one creak, which, I must confess, sent
a tingle through my nerves, I reached the upper landing, found myself
in front of a closed door, and beside this door encountered the warning
hand of Nighthawk.
"Look!" he said.
And drawing me toward him, he pointed through a crack in the board
partition, which separated the passage from the apartment.
XXIX.
DARKE'S PAST LIFE.
Leaning on Nighthawk's shoulder, I placed my eye at the aperture.
On a broken chair beside the three-legged table sat Darke, booted,
spurred, and armed with pistol and sabre. In an old rocking-chair,
without arms, the singular woman, who seemed to accompany him
everywhere, sat rocking to and fro, and carelessly tapping with a small
whip, the handsome gray riding-habit which defined her slender and
graceful figure.
Facing them, on an old bed frame, sat the unfortunate Swartz--but I
would scarcely have recognized him, if I had not known that it was he.
His frame had fallen away almost to nothing. His clothes hung upon him
as upon a wooden pole. His cheeks were pale, sunken; his eyes hollow;
his bearing, cowed, abject, and submissive beyond expression.
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