ts the deed, not because grieving at its guilt, but the position
it has placed him in--one of dread danger, with no advantage derived,
nothing to compensate him for the crime. No wonder at his asking, in
the name of the Devil, why he has done it!

He is being punished for it now; if not through remorse of conscience,
by coward craven fear. He feels what other criminals have felt before--
what, be it hoped, they will ever feel--how hard it is to sleep the
sleep of the assassin, or lie awake on a murderer's bed.

On the last Richard Darke lies; since this night he sleeps not at all.
From the hour of retiring to his chamber, till morning's dawn comes
creeping through the window, he has never closed eye; or, if so, not in
the sweet oblivion of slumber.

He is still turning upon his couch, chafing in fretful apprehension,
when daylight breaks into his bedroom, and shows its shine upon the
floor. It is the soft blue light of a southern morn, which usually
enters accompanied by bird music--the songs of the wild forest warblers
mingling with domestic voices not so melodious. Among these the harsh
"screek" of the guinea-fowl; the more sonorous call of the turkey
"gobbler;" the scream of the goose, always as in agony; the merrier
cackle of the laying hen, with the still more cheerful note of her
lord--Chanticleer.

All these sounds hears Dick Darke, the agreeable as the disagreeable.
Both are alike to him on this morning, the second after the murder.

Far more unpleasant than the last are some other sounds which salute his
ear, as he lies listening. Noises which, breaking out abruptly, at once
put an end to the singing of the forest birds, and the calling of the
farm-yard fowls.

They are of two kinds; one, the clattering of horses' hoofs, the other,
the clack and clangour of men's voices. Evidently there are several,
speaking at the same time, and all in like tone--this of anger, of
vengeance!

At first they seem at some distance off, but evidently drawing nigh.

Soon they are close up to the dwelling, their voices loudly
reverberating from its walls.

The assassin cannot any longer keep to his couch. Too well knows he
what the noise is, his guilty heart guessing it.

Springing to his feet, he glides across the room, and approaches the
window--cautiously, because in fear.

His limbs tremble, as he draws the curtain and looks out. Then almost
refusing to support him: for, in the courtyard he sees a half-score