“You know how he loved me, Surry.”
“And how you loved him, Mordaunt. I can understand your presence at his grave, my dear friend.”
Mordaunt sighed, then saluted Mohun, who approached.
“This spot,” he said, “is well known to Colonel Surry and myself, Mohun.”
Then turning to me, he added:—
“I found a melancholy spectacle awaiting me here.”
“Other than Achmed’s grave?”
“Yes; come, and I will show you.”
And he led the way into the house. As I entered the squalid and miserable mansion, the sight which greeted me made me recoil.
On a wretched bed lay the corpse of a woman; and at a glance, I recognized the woman Parkins, who had played so tragic a part in the history of Mordaunt. The face was hideously attenuated; the eyes were open and staring; the lower jaw had fallen. In the rigid and bony hand was a dry and musty crust of bread.