Swartz lay perfectly dead, in a pool of blood. Darke had blown out his
brains.
XXXIII.
PRESTON HAMPTON.
An hour afterward the body of the unfortunate man had been buried, and
I had returned with Mohun and Nighthawk to the opposite bank of the
Rowanty.
I had never seen Mohun so gloomy. He scarcely uttered a word during the
whole march back; and when I announced my intention to spend the night
at the house of Mr. Alibi, as the long tramp had wearied me out, he
scarcely invited me to his head-quarters, and when I declined, did not
urge me. Something evidently weighed heavily on the mind of Mohun, and
a few moment's reflection explained the whole to me.
He had conversed rapidly and apart with Nighthawk near the lonely
house; and his gloom had dated from that conversation. Nighthawk had
evidently explained every thing: the cause of Swartz's imprisonment;
his statement in reference to the paper--and now that Swartz was dead,
the hiding-place of the document seemed forever undiscoverable.
If the reader does not understand the terrible significance of this
fact, and Mohun's consequent gloom, I promise that he shall comprehend
all before very long.
Mohun returned to his camp, and I remained at the house of Mr. Alibi
until morning, stretched on a lounge, and wrapped in my cape.
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