rcely
leap, with the last spring of o'er-laboured legs, from the engulfing
grave of slime. He fell back, with his swarthy breast (from which my
gripe had rent all clothing), like a hummock of bog-oak, standing out
the quagmire; and then he tossed his arms to heaven, and they were black
to the elbow, and the glare of his eyes was ghastly. I could only gaze
and pant; for my strength was no more than an infant's, from the fury
and the horror. Scarcely could I turn away, while, joint by joint, he
sank from sight.

CHAPTER LXXV

LIFE AND LORNA COME AGAIN

When the little boy came back with the bluebells, which he had managed
to find--as children always do find flowers, when older eyes see
none--the only sign of his father left was a dark brown bubble, upon a
newly formed patch of blackness. But to the center of its pulpy gorge
the greedy slough was heaving, and sullenly grinding its weltering jaws
among the flags and the sedges.

With pain, and ache, both of mind and body, and shame at my own fury, I
heavily mounted my horse again, and, looked down at the innocent Ensie.
Would this playful, loving child grow up like his cruel father, and end
a godless life of hatred with a death of violence? He lifted his noble
forehead towards me, as if to answer, "Nay, I will not": but the words
he spoke were these:--

'Don,'--for he could never say 'John'--'oh, Don, I am so glad that nasty
naughty man is gone away. Take me home, Don. Take me home.'

It has been said of the wicked, 'not even their own children love them.'
And I could easily believe that Carver Doone's cold-hearted ways had
scared from him even his favorite child. No man would I call truly
wicked, unless his heart be cold.

It hurt me, more than I can tell, even through all other grief, to take
into my arms the child of the man just slain by me. The feeling was a
foolish one, and a wrong one, as the thing has been--for I would fain
have saved that man, after he was conquered--nevertheless my arms went
coldly round that little fellow; neither would they have gone at all,
if there had been any help for it. But I could not leave him there, till
some one else might fetch him; on account of the cruel slough, and the
ravens which had come hovering over the dead horse; neither could I,
with my wound, tie him on my horse and walk.

For now I had spent a great deal of blood, and was rather faint and
weary. And it was lucky for me that Kickums had lost spirit, like his