I do not
care for myself, but you are all that I have left in the world.' That
is what he said, sir."
And Amanda was silent.
"Then they fell asleep?" asked Mohun.
"Yes, sir; and on the next morning he took her in his arms again, and
carried her to the carriage, and they left me."
Mohun leaned his chin upon his hand, knit his brows, and reflected. The
singular narrative plunged me too into a reverie. This man, Darke, was
a veritable gulf of mystery--his life full of hidden and inexplicable
things. The son of General Davenant, he had murdered his father's foe;
permitted that father to be tried for the crime, and to remain under
suspicion; disappeared, changed his name, encountered the daughter of
his victim, married her, had those mysterious dealings with Mohun,
disappeared a second time, changed his name a second time, and now had
once more made his appearance near the scene of his first crime, to
murder Swartz, capture his father and brother, and complete his tragic
record by fighting under the enemy's flag against his country and his
family!
There was something diabolical in that career; in this man's life "deep
under deep" met the eye. And yet he was not entirely bad. On that night
in Pennsylvania, he had refused to strike Mohun at a disadvantage--and
had borne off the gray woman at the peril of death or capture.
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