As Darke ended, the general's hand went
to the hilt of his sword, and he half drew it, by an instinctive
movement, from the scabbard. "Well!" added the Federal officer, in the
same low tone, with a deeper flush in his cheeks, "draw your sword,
sir--strike me if you think proper. For myself, I am done with murder,
and shrink from it, so that, if my father wishes to kill me, I will
open my breast, to give him a fair opportunity. You see I am not
altogether the murderous wretch you take me for. I am a murderer, it is
true, and soiled with every vice--you see I am frank--but I will not
resist, if you plunge your sword into my heart. Strike! strike! While I
am dying I will have time to say the few words I have to say to you!"
General Davenant shuddered with wrath still, but a strange emotion was
mingled with the sentiment now--an emotion which I could not fathom.
Before he could open his lips, however, Darke resumed, in the same
tone:--
"You hesitate--you are not ready to become my executioner. Well,
listen, and I will utter that which may deprive you of all
self-control. Yes, once more, I killed a man, and killed him for money;
but _you_ made me what I was! You petted, and spoiled, and made me
selfish. In addition, you hated--that man. You had hated him for
twenty years.
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