A mocking smile came to the woman’s lips.
“You seem to dislike the idea of—assassination,” she said.
Darke uttered a sound resembling the growl of a wild animal, and a moment after, seizing the decanter, he dashed some of its contents into a glass, and raised it to his lips.
“Cursed stuff!” he suddenly exclaimed, setting the glass down violently. “I want drink—real drink—to-day!”
The woman looked at him curiously, and said quietly:—
“What is the matter?”
Her companion’s brows were knit until the shaggy masses united over the gloomy eyes. Beneath burned a lurid fire.
“I have seen him again—General Davenant,” he said, in a low voice; “it is the second time.”
As he uttered these words, Darke seemed the prey of some singular emotion.
“It was at Gettysburg first,” he continued. “He was leading the charge, on the third day, against Cemetery Heights. I was there by accident. They were repulsed. When he rode back, he was carrying a bleeding boy in his arms through the smoke. I recognized his tall form and gray hair; and heard his voice in the midst of the cannon, as he cheered on his men.”