He was lying on the floor—her nurse-child—her young master, on whom she doted with true motherly love. His white, extended hand grasped the small pistol that had sent that deadly bullet into the breast from which that ghastly torrent was pouring. His magnificent form lay rigid; his head, with its short, fair locks, was thrown backward, and the blue eyes, with their luring, fatal beauty, were fixed in a dying stare.
She dropped down on her knees—his poor old black mammy—and tried to stanch the torrent of blood with the ample folds of her skirt, while heart-rending groans burst from her lips.
"Mammy!" he uttered, faintly.
"Massa Charlie—darlin'!" she groaned.
"You heard her funeral-bell? How could I live with her death upon my soul? Oh, my little Daisy, my love, I broke your heart, and this is my atonement!" he moaned faintly, remorsefully.
"Massa Charlie, you should have t'ought of her a-lyin' in yonder wid her babies."
"Ah, mammy, I did, I did! but I was false to her, too. I am not fit to live. I—I ruined those two women's lives with my villainy! I rushed headlong into sin, but I never dreamed of what was coming to me to-day. I thought I could go on in my evil ways, but God has punished me. Mammy, do you think I could live when she is gone out of the world—she whom I loved so fondly yet so selfishly?"
"But, Massa Charlie—"
"Yes, I know. I ought to have been true to her. I was weak, unworthy, full of ambition. I let gold and high position lure me from her side. I was false alike to her I loved and to her I could not love. Remorse has fastened its fangs in my heart, and I must die. If I lived, she would haunt me! How can she rest with that upon her breast?"
"Oh, my poor boy! my poor boy! Let me sen' for de preacher."