"I shrunk back, refusing his hand.
"'Do not touch that,' I groaned, 'there is blood on it!'
"He seized it, and kneeling down, kissed it.
"'Bloody or not, it is _your_ hand--the hand of my dear young master!'
"And the honest fellow burst into tears, as he covered my hand with
kisses.
"A month afterward, I was in Europe, amid the whirl and noise of Paris.
I tried to forget that I was a murderer--but the shadow went with me!"
XXVII.
MOHUN TERMINATES HIS NARRATIVE.
Mohun had spoken throughout the earlier portions of his narrative in a
tone of cynical bitterness. His last words were mingled, however, with
weary sighs, and his face wore an expression of the profoundest
melancholy.
The burnt-out cigar had fallen from his fingers to the floor; he leaned
back languidly in his great arm-chair: with eyes fixed upon the dying
fire, he seemed to go back in memory to the terrible scenes just
described, living over again all those harsh and conflicting emotions.
"So it ended, Surry," he said, after a long pause. "Such was the
frightful gulf into which the devil and my own passions pushed me, in
that month of December, 1856. A hand as irresistible and inexorable as
the Greek Necessity had led me step by step to murder--in intent if not
in fact--and for years the shadow of the crime which I believed I had
committed, made my life wretched.
Pages:
528
529
530
531
532
533
534
535
536
537
538
539
540
541
542
543
544
545
546
547
548
549
550
551
552