A fierce joy flashed in the blood-shot eyes of the bandit; he had lost all beside, but a dying man's vengeance yet might be his. Matteo leveled his pistol and fired; the report rang sharp through the wood, a victim lay stretched on the ground, but that victim was not Horace Cleveland. Raphael had reached the spot at that crisis only in time to throw himself in front of his friend, and receive in his own bosom the bullet destined for another!
With a wild cry Enrico rushed forward and threw himself on the ground by his brother. Absorbed by one overpowering dread, the wretched young man was unconscious of all that was passing around him; he heard not, cared not for the desperate struggle of Matteo with the soldiers, his wrestling for liberty and life as a wild beast caught in the toils, nor knew that the struggle ended at last in the capture of the chief.
Enrico heard not, cared not for the sobs of delight with which a mother embraced a rescued son, nor knew the deep sympathy with which both Mrs. Cleveland and Horace now bent over Raphael. Had an earthquake shaken the forest, Enrico would scarcely have felt it. His brother's head was supported on his breast; the expression of the features was serene and painless, the heavy eyelids closed, and the long dark lashes resting on the colorless cheek.
"Raphael! My brother, look at me, speak to me! This is not, it cannot be death! One word, if it be of reproach—one look, were it even in anger! Tell me that I have not this night been rescued from the jaws of death, that I have not been saved from the whelming waters to be plunged in darker depths of wretchedness!"
The young man sobbed aloud in the anguish of his soul. His nerves had been completely unstrung by the events of the last few hours; his mind was crushed by the consciousness that it had been his guilt that had led to the ruin of his brother.
"He bleeds but little; he may, he will revive!" exclaimed Horace. "I will bring water!" And he hurried away towards the stream. Briny drops were fast falling on the face of Raphael, but they seemed to have no power to arouse him.
"O God, have mercy upon me! O God, spare my brother; let him not perish through my sin! I will submit to Thy will in all things—I will not murmur—I will not rebel—only spare this one precious life!" It was the wrestling, agonizing prayer bursting from a broken and contrite heart.
"See, his lips move!" exclaimed Horace, who had just sprinkled water over the face of the dying man.
Faint sounds came forth, soft and melodious still, from those tuneful lips so soon to be silenced in death; even Enrico hushed his wild grief to listen. Low but distinct were the words:
"Joy cometh—in the morning!—see—it is brightening in the east—darkness is passing away—and for ever!"