Down from his seat in the window-sill the witless villager came backward, all bestrewn, measuring his body in the sand, where he lay, silent as the other shadows, with his arms extended in the frenzy of death, and his mouth wide open and flowing blood.
Jack Wonnell had paid the penalty of being out of fashion.
The mocking-bird, aroused by the loud report, leaped into the empty window-sill to seek his tutor, and set up the lesson he had learned too late:
"Poor Jack! Poor Jack! Roxy! Roxy! Roxy!" came screaming on the night, and all was still.
William Tilghman was driving back from Whitehaven in the melancholy thoughts inspired by the departure of his cousin, whom he had at last seen go into the great wilderness of the world the passive companion of her husband, like the wife of Cain, driven forth with him, when the carriage was arrested at the ancient Presbyterian church—which overlooked Princess Anne from the opposite bank of the little river—by a woman almost throwing herself under the wheels.
"Why, Lord sakes! it's our Virgie!" cried Rhoda Holland.
The girl, with all the energy of dread, sprang into the carriage by William Tilghman's side and threw her arms around him:
"Save me! Save me!"
"What ails you, Virgie?" cried the young man, assuringly. "You are in no danger, child!"