“There’s not much news in that. We had anticipated something of the kind?”
“But thar’s worse, capt’n.”
“Worse!—what is it, Wingrove?” I put the question with a feeling of renewed anxiety.
“Holt’s gone wi’ the Mormons.”
“That too I had expected. It does not surprise me in the least.”
“Ah! capt’n,” continued the backwoodsman with a sigh, while an expression of profound sadness pervaded his features, “thar’s uglier news still.”
“Ha!” I involuntarily exclaimed, as an evil suspicion crossed my mind. “News of her? Quick! tell me! has aught happened to her?”
“The worst that kud happen, I reck’n—she’s dead.”
I started as if a shot had passed through my heart. Its convulsive throbbing stifled my speech. I could not get breath to utter a word; but stood gazing at my companion in silent agony.
“Arter all,” continued he, in a tone of grave resignation, “I don’t know if it air the worst. I sayed afore, an’ I say so still, thet I’d ruther she war dead that in the arms o’ thet ere stinkin’ Mormon. Poor Marian! she’s hed but a short life, o’ ’t, an’ not a very merry one eyether.”