Victor raised his arms mutely to the heavens as if to plead aginst the injustice of men.
And as his clasped hands wuz raised, a bullet struck that noble heart, and he fell, breathin’ out that old prayer:
“Lord, lay not this sin to their charge.”
“WHEN THE MOON HAD RISEN.”
CHAPTER XVIII.
WHEN the moon had risen a little higher and its direct rays fell down through the glossy leaves onto that white, kingly face, another shadow fell on the green, blossomin’ sward, and a pale face looked through the branches, and Genieve stood there by the dead form of the man she worshipped.
It wuz all over. She could do nothin’—wimmen seldom can in tragedys arisin’ from grave political difficulties.
But there is one thing she can do—she is used to it—she can suffer. Genieve could throw herself down upon the silent, cold body of her lover, while like a confused dream the whole past rushed through her mind. Her glowing hopes cut short, her life’s happiness all slain by the enemies of truth. She could lie there and try to think of the years between her and death. How could she live them?