The man and woman sitting on the grave were Russell Trafford and Isabel Moreland!
It would be difficult to describe the feelings that harrowed the villain’s breast as he made this discovery, but fear, amazement, and indomitable rage were predominant. This time the appearance of the girl there was more wonderful than that of the man, to him, for he deemed it not nearly so strange for a spirit to walk the earth, as he did for a human being to be present at two places at the same time; and he had certainly seen Isabel go away with her parents that evening.
When his fear had subsided his blood began to boil with furious anger, as on the first occasion. He not only found it impossible to control himself, but he scarcely knew what he did.
“By the Eternal!” he shrieked, “’tis the second time I have been fated to look on this scene, and if that man is not a ghost he shall be one in less than a minute! Curse you, take that!”
McCabe threw up his rifle and leveled it at the couple on the grave. He did not aim at the man particularly. In his fierce passion he cared but little which one he shot.
There was a flash and a report, followed by a suppressed scream. Then Jim McCabe leaped out from behind the tree, clubbed his gun and bounded out into the open glade. He dashed through the cloud of smoke that had been caused by the discharge of his piece, and in another moment was standing beside the grave.
Nobody was there! The baffled wretch glared about him like a madman. Not a living thing was within range of his gleaming eyes! Not the slightest sound of a footstep told him that they had fled from him. What had become of them so quickly? Had his aim proved untrue? and had they made good their escape in so short a space of time, and so noiselessly that they could not be heard? These, and a score of similar questions, flashed through the bewildered man’s mind, as he stood by the grave, staring wildly around and listening in vain for the sound of a retreating footstep. He knew he had seen them sitting there where he was now standing; but how they had vanished so quickly was an unfathomable mystery. He walked round the edge of the wood, looking behind trees, and thrusting the barrel of his gun into the bushes, but discovered no trace of those for whom he was searching. Then he stopped and pressed his hand to his brow, with an effort to calm his excited brain.
“I must be doomed,” he thought. “I have heard of people seeing such visions, but they always die shortly afterward.”
“Hallo, stranger! How dew you dew?” called out a sharp, nasal voice at that juncture.
McCabe whirled round and placed himself on the defensive in a twinkling. But he instantly lowered his weapon with a show of recognition, as he found himself face to face with a singular-looking specimen of the genus homo, who wore a blue swallow-tail coat, and a tall white hat with the nap brushed the wrong way. It was the Yankee clock-peddler, who had been hanging about the settlement for the last week or two, and who, it will be remembered, had previously introduced himself to McCabe, much to that gentleman’s vexation.