“It is death,” replied Grace, faintly; “there is one death, but, Shawn, there will soon be another. Shawn, forgive me, and kiss me for the sake of our early love.”
“I am an outlaw,” replied the stern young tory; “but I will never kiss the polluted lips of woman as long as she has breath in her body.”
“But Caterine Collins has taken away my child, and has not returned with it.”
“No, nor ever will,” replied the outlaw. “She was the instrument of your destroyer. But I wish you to be consoled, Grace. Do you see that middogue? It is red with blood. Now listen. I have avenged you; that middogue was reddened in the heart of the villain that wrought your ruin. As far as man can be, I am now satisfied.”
“My child!” she faintly said; “my child! where is it?”
Her words were scarcely audible. She closed her eyes and was silent. The outlaw looked closely into her countenance, and perceived at once that death was there. He felt her pulse, her heart, but all was still.
“Now,” said he, “the penalty you have paid for your crime has taken away the pollution from your lips, and I will kiss you for the sake of our early love.”
He then kissed her, and rained showers of tears over her now unconscious features. The two funerals took place upon the same day; and, what was still more particular, they were buried in the same churchyard. Their unhappy fates were similar in more than one point. The selfish and inhuman seducer of each became the victim of his crime; one by the just and righteous vengeance of a heart-broken and indignant father, and the other by the middogue of the brave and noble-minded outlaw. Who the murderer of Harry Woodward, or rather the avenger of Grace Davoren, was, never became known. The only ears to which the outlaw revealed the secret were closed, and her tongue silent for ever.