“I did not kill him, madam, though if I had ’twould have been but just.”
The eyes of the dying man flared open once, and fixed upon the face of Garnet. Raising himself upon his elbow, he said, in low and broken tones:
“Forgive me, Garnet—and—believe this!—whatever were the hidden sins of my youth—neither piracy nor bloodshed were among them! I was a—prisoner among them! Ship—wreck—plank—waves—picked up—oh, God, forgive me!” His head fell back—he rolled over in a mortal struggle, and then grew still in death.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
THE BEEHIVE.
A cottage where domestic love
And truth breathe simple kindness to the heart,
Where white-armed children twine the neck of age,
Where hospitable cares light up the hearth,
Cheering the lonely traveler on his way.
—Gilman.