There was the old tavern, with
its long portico, where Darke had held his orgies, and from which he
had set forth on his errand of robbery and murder. There was the county
jail, in which General Davenant had insisted upon being confined, and
where so many friends had visited him. There was the old court-house,
in which he had been tried for the murder of George Conway; and I
fancied I could distinguish upon one of the shutters, the broken bolt
which Darke had forced, more than ten years before, in order to purloin
the knife with which the crime had been committed.
For some miles, that tragic story absorbed me, banishing all other
reflections. That was surely the strangest of histories!--and the drama
had by no means reached its denouement. Between the first and last acts
"an interval of ten years is supposed to pass." There was the stage
direction! Darke was still alive, active, dangerous, bent on mischief.
He had an able coadjutress in his female ally. That singular woman,
with whom his life was so closely connected, was in prison, it was
true, but the Confederate authorities might release her; she might, at
any moment, recommence her _diablerie_. Had she found that paper--or
had Mohun found it? In any event, she was dangerous--more so, even,
than her male companion--that worthy whom I might meet at every turn in
the road--that prince of surprises and tragic "appearances!"
"Decidedly, these are curiosities, this man and this woman!" I said;
"they are two bottomless pits of daring and depravity.
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