After another interval of silence, he continues, banteringly as before:
“So, fair Helen, you perceive how circumstances have changed between us, and I hope you’ll have the sense to suit yourself to the change. Beneath the Mississippian tree you denied me: here under the Texan, you’ll not be so inexorable—will you?”
Still no response.
“Well; if you won’t vouchsafe an answer, I must be content to go without it; remembering the old saw—‘Silence consents.’ Perhaps, ere long your tongue will untie itself; when you’ve got over grieving for him who’s gone—your great favourite, Charley Clancy. I take it, you’ve heard of his death; and possibly a report, that some one killed him. Both stories are true; and, telling you so, I may add, no one knows better than myself; since ’twas I sent the gentleman to kingdom come—Richard Darke.”
On making the fearful confession, and in boastful emphasis, he bends lower to observe its effect. Not in her face, still covered with the serape, but her form, in which he can perceive a tremor from head to foot. She shudders, and not strange, as she thinks:—
“He murdered him. He may intend the same with me. I care not now.”
Again the voice of the self-accused assassin:
“You know me now?”
She is silent as ever, and once more motionless; the convulsive spasm having passed. Even the beating of her heart seems stilled.
Is she dead? Has his fell speech slain her? In reality it would appear so.