As from his lips the blood.—Hemans.
Riding recklessly over the dead and dying, Albert Goldsborough rushed onward, until at the entrance of an old turnpike road he was arrested by a sight that might have stopped an army in its flight.
In the dust, on the ground, knelt Vittorio Corsoni, the terrible Free Sword, supporting in his arms the pale form of his beloved wife, and gazing down on her still face in unutterable anguish and despair. Beside him lay his hat and plume and his sword, cast off as though useless to him evermore.
“Dead!” exclaimed Albert Goldsborough, in horror and amazement.
The Free Sword did not reply or look up; he did not even seem to see or hear the man who addressed him.
The sound of approaching horses’ feet startled Colonel Goldsborough from his trance of amazement.
“Corsoni! It is no use to sit there and be captured! Up and fly! all is lost!” he exclaimed, putting spurs to his horse and speeding away.
“Yes, all is lost!” murmured the Free Sword, without removing his eyes from the dead face over which he bent.
Another horseman came thundering up in a cloud of dust. It was Mutchison.
“Fly! fly, Colonel Corsoni! Rosenthal is within a hundred yards of you! And all is over!” shouted the giant, as he rushed past without drawing rein.