After slowly repeating the letters over several times in his endeavors to unravel the enigma, the other quickly exclaimed:
“I have it—the knife’s our chief’s.”
“Sartinly.”
“Wonder how it came here?”
“Th’ chief hisself or some of th’ league have been around and at work.”
They then proceeded without delay to look about them for some traces of a melée . The walls were besmeared in several places with clots of blood, giving unmistakable signs of an encounter, while in the center of the floor was a small pool of human gore not yet dry, denoting that the victim, whether dead or wounded, had been but recently removed.
The expiring flame of the candle threw a sickly glare over the apartment, wrapping every thing in a ghostly gloom. The ruffians, though steeled to scenes of blood and murder, could not drive away the indescribable feeling of awe that crept over them as they stood there alone.
The bloody weapon of their chieftain, the not-to-be-mistaken marks of a recent combat, the light, the deserted house with its entire contents intact—all these, to the minds of the ruffians, were an unbroken chain of circumstances which to them was an inexplicable mystery.
Murder and rapine in their direst forms they could look upon unflinchingly, but to be there alone, with nothing but the dumb and sanguinary witnesses of the slaughtered victim around them, was more than their treacherous souls could withstand.
Filled with superstitious fears, they hastened precipitately down the stairs, casting occasional furtive glances behind them, and ceased not their hasty retreat until they had reached their horses, which quickly mounting, they drove their rowels into their flanks and in a moment were dashing down the road in hurried flight.