“Mine is none of these,” said I, with a low, guttural utterance, as if I was biting each word I spoke.
“Vows of chastisement—”
“Not that, not that either!” cried I; then, dropping my voice to a low whisper, I said, “I have sworn a solemn oath to commit a murder! I know the full guilt of what is before me, I see all the consequences, both here and hereafter: but my word is pledged,—I have taken the oath with every ceremony that can give it solemnity; and—I 'll go through with it!”
“There is a mystery in all this,” said the Padre; “you must recount the circumstances of this singular pledge, ere I can give you either comfort or counsel.”
“I look for neither,—I hope for neither!” said I, wringing my hands; “but you shall hear my story,—you are the last to whom I can ever reveal it! I arrived at New Orleans about a fortnight ago, on a yacht cruise with a friend of mine, of whose name, at least, you may have heard,—Sir Dudley Broughton.”
“The owner of a handsome schooner, the 'Firefly,'” said the Padre, with an animation on the subject not quite in keeping with his costume.
“The same; you are, then, acquainted with him?”
“Oh, no; I was accidentally standing on the wharf when his yacht came up the river at New Orleans.”
“You did n't remark a young man on the poop in a foraging-cap, with a gold band round it?”
“I cannot say I did.”