“No, father, I will not—I shall not—till you have promised—till these men promise—”
“We can’t promise you anything, miss—however much we might like it. It ain’t a question for women, no how. There’s been a crime committed—a murder, as ye yourself know. There must be no cheating of justice. There’s no mercy for a murderer!”
“No mercy!” echo a score of angry voices. “Let him be hanged—hanged—hanged!”
The Regulators are no longer restrained by the fair presence. Perhaps it has but hastened the fatal moment. The soul of Cassius Calhoun is not the only one in that crowd stirred by the spirit of envy. The horse hunter is now hated for his supposed good fortune.
In the tumult of revengeful passion, all gallantry is forgotten,—that very virtue for which the Texan is distinguished.
The lady is led aside—dragged rather than led—by her cousin, and at the command of her father. She struggles in the hated arms that hold her—wildly weeping, loudly protesting against the act of inhumanity.
“Monsters! murderers!” are the phrases that fall from her lips.
Her struggles are resisted; her speeches unheeded. She is borne back beyond the confines of the crowd—beyond the hope of giving help to him, for whom she is willing to lay down her life!
Bitter are the speeches Calhoun is constrained to hear—heartbreaking the words now showered upon him. Better for him he had not taken hold of her.
It scarce consoles him—that certainty of revenge. His rival will soon be no more; but what matters it? The fair form writhing in his grasp can never be consentingly embraced. He may kill the hero of her heart, but not conquer for himself its most feeble affection!