"Who is it, mother?? inquired her daughters, in terrified tones.
"Mr. Horace Blondelle!" she whispered.
CHAPTER XXXII.
THE LAST FATAL HALLOW EVE.
| So do the dark in soul expire, |
| Or live like scorpion girt with fire; |
| So writhes the mind remorse hath riven— |
| Unfit for earth, undoomed for heaven, |
| Darkness above, despair beneath, |
| Around it flame, within it death.—Byron. |
The awe-stricken women drew nearer to gaze upon the murdered man.
"Grandma, he is not dead! He breathes," exclaimed Gem, whose young eyes had detected the slight, very slight motion of the man's chest.
The old woman knelt down beside the body, and began to examine it more closely. The shirt-bosom, vest, and coat front were soaked with blood, that still seemed to ooze from some hidden wound.
She hastily unbuttoned his clothing, and found a small round blackened bullet hole over the region of the left lung.