What she designed saying is not said. Her interrupted words are continued into a shriek—one wild cry—then her lips are sealed, suddenly, as if stricken dumb, or dead!
Not by the visitation of God. Before losing consciousness, she felt the embrace of brawny arms—knew herself the victim of man’s violence.
Volume Two—Chapter Ten.
Stunned and Silent.
Down in the boat-dock, upon the thwarts of his skiff, sits the young waterman awaiting his fare. He has been up to the house and there hospitably entertained—feasted. But with the sorrow of his recent bereavement still fresh, the revelry of the servants’ hall had no fascination for him—instead, only saddening the more. Even the blandishments of the French femme de chambre could not detain him; and fleeing them, he has returned to his boat long before he expects being called upon to use the oars.
Seated, pipe in mouth—for Jack too indulges in tobacco—he is endeavouring to put in the time as well as he can; irksome at best with that bitter grief upon him. And it is present all the while, with scarce a moment of surcease, his thoughts ever dwelling on her who is sleeping her last sleep in the burying-ground at Rugg’s Ferry.
While thus disconsolately reflecting, a sound falls upon his ears, which claims his attention, and for an instant or two occupies it. If anything, it was the dip of an oar; but so light that only one with ears well-trained to distinguish noises of the kind could tell it to be that. He, however, has no doubt of it, muttering to himself—
“Wonder whose boat can be on the river this time o’ night—mornin’, I ought to say? Wouldn’t be a tourist party—starting off so early? No, can’t be that. Like enough Dick Dempsey out a-salmon stealin’! The night so dark—just the sort for the rascal to be about on his unlawful business.”