“‘Earth gapes, Hell burns, fiends roar, saints pray,
To have him suddenly carried away;
Cancel his bond of life, dear God; I pray
That I may live to say the dog is dead.’
“I trust that my good friends will pardon me for using such strong language—I have borrowed it from Shakespeare’s ‘Richard III.’ It was suggested to my mind by the striking resemblance between the bloody King and this diabolical monster—this lapper up of innocent blood—this destroyer of confiding virtue—this cruel fiend whose hands are red with blood—whose soul is stained with perjury. This false, bloody villain is named Benjamin Bowles, and here he stands.”
As quick as thought she sprang forward before the sentence had been half uttered and tearing away Napoleon’s mask, there stood Ben Bowles, pale but defiant as ever, while anger and hate blazed from his eyes. Half a dozen ladies fainted, others fled to their state-rooms, while the men stood still, perfectly stupefied with astonishment. Henry of Navarre then slowly moved round and confronting Bowles, while his arms were folded across his breast.
“Mr. Bowles! you and I have met before to-day. A duty which I owe to society and the laws of my country compels me to take a step which will somewhat interfere with your pleasure excursion. The grand jury at Memphis have decided that you committed a cruel murder upon a little boy named Bramlett. Now you will have to abandon your little pleasure trip and go with me back to Memphis. If they do not hang you for the murder of young Bramlett, you can then stand your trial for your cowardly attempt to assassinate Mrs. Demar. You know we can take the train at Vicksburg, and return to Memphis.”
“I know you very well, Harry Wallingford, and am always glad to meet you. You would be glad to create the impression that you are a man of courage, but I happen to know that that you are a coward. I despise and defy you, and am sorry I cannot employ words sufficiently insulting to induce you to fight.”
“I have too much self-respect, Mr. Bowles, to resent an insult offered by men of your sort. The fact is, I pity you, for the awful situation in which you are placed, and so far as I am individually concerned, I mean to place you in the hands of the law, and leave you to deal with God and your own conscience.”
“Indeed, sir, that is exceedingly kind in you; but I must be permitted to make some disposition of you, since you have been so mindful of my comfort. You say you are going to place me in the hands of God—the law—my conscience, and the grand jury, and how many other distinguished individuals have you chosen to act as my guardian. I flatter myself that I shall be able to make a better disposition of you, than you have promised to make of me; because I have concluded to make hell a present of your cowardly soul, so you will not be annoyed with so many masters. I think I shall be able to make a better job this time than I did when I clipped your left wing at Memphis.”
As Bowles uttered the last sentence, he snatched a large navy revolver from under his coat, and cocking it as he brought it round, leveled it at Wallingford’s breast; but the lady in the black domino, who was standing near, seized his arm and instantly jerked it round; a short scuffle ensued—the loud report of the pistol rang out through the saloon—a cloud of blue smoke gushed up—a column of red flame blazed out—a loud scream escaped the mysterious woman’s lips, and she fell bleeding into Navarre’s arms. As the body of the lady dropped forward against Navarre’s breast, he saw a crimson stream gush out from her left side and trickle over his vest. As her head fell back across his arm her mask fell off, and her dark brown hair dropped unconfined about his shoulders.
“Merciful God!” exclaimed Wallingford, “it is Viola, and the cruel villain has killed her!”
As soon as Bowles fired the pistol he darted quickly through a side door, and ran rapidly toward the front end of the boat, evidently intending to leap into the river and effect his escape by swimming to the shore.