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 passed 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.
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