Beadle's New York Dime Library No. 302 — page 18: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

{ ‘ ; ee : : . - ’ i ,? \ * sf ~ ee ee oo Sp el Cainer a A a cee ‘ ae ees .” — — ea » ‘ s > * 4%, we = - ee me em > ss ad y —_ on i , 5 * ‘ * - - a * s 7 A *»* Sick, 7 “ _t « 4 »- * a — : - 5 > A end de « = - ered his eyes with his trembling his bat and bowed low with mock respect. 18 Faro Saul, the Handsome Hercules. Ne — ———— tim. Yes, failing! despite his desperate efforts to fight off the influence which he knew would end in death, the prisoner was yielding to the awful drog. The frightfully malignant voice of the masked man sounded fainter and less dis- tinct. His shape seemed to recede and at the same time grow marvelously large, with horns on its head and—that was all! Oblivion came, shutting all out! CHAPTER XIV. PROBING AN OLD WOUND. THERE was & i of gloom resting over the house of Marcus Tudor; gloom and anxiety and bitter unrest. In the chamber and on the bed of his betroth- ed bride, Jay Milo Vincent, hovering between life and death. Prayerfully as the grim old pie was entreated to give a favorable opinion—to say that his patient would recover— he dare not. The scales were too evenly bal- anced. The added weight of a breath either side might cause that in which the fiat of fate rested to sink or rise. He had done all that lay in his power and now they could only wait and watch. For two days Milo Vincent had been lying there, motionless, pale as though already a corpse. The shot which he managed to fire be- fore unconsciousness again overcame him, was heard and the cause investigated by a curious party. They discovered the body, and for a time believed that death had been before them; but then some one more critical than bis fellows, detected faint traces of life remaining, and old doctor Winegar was sought for with all possible haste, a number of devoted friends, with Don Bobtail Fandango at the head, remaining on guard with ready weapons, lest tbe assassins should return to complete their bloody work as soon as the news should reach their ears. And then, when the two ugly knife-cuts were properly bandaged, and the flow of blood stanch- ed, the unconscious foreman was carried to the house of his employer, where he lay yet. After the first wild outburst of grief, Zurilla. Tu- dor brought her emotions under control, and kept them there with an unyielding will for which no oue bad ever given ber credit. And after the first anxious day, the wortby doctor was heard to whisper confidentially across a glass of whisky, that, under heaven and a divine Provi- dence, Milo Vincent would, if he ever regained his health, owe his life to Miss Zu, God bless ber! Looking but the ghost of his former self, hav- ing aged in outward seeming at least a dozen ears during those two days, Marcus Tudor sat in his library, staring vacantly before, seeing nothing of his actual surroundings, but haunted by the dread pbantoms of a past that he had counted dead and buried a generation ago. At brief intervals he would shiver and cringe, sinking lower in his cushioned chair, trying to close his eyes, but in vain. Held by the spell which bound him from head to foot, they would move slowly around the room as though follow- ing the movements of some living being, instead of a baseless fabric erected by a diseased imagi- nation and disordered brain. Only for the coming of Milo Vincent in a seemingly dying state, Marcus Tuder would have attempted to escape his promised doom by rt phe flight. But be loved his daughter dearly to abandon her to the evil power of a merciless wretch like Faro Saul, and be knew that she could not be torn alive from the ill couch of her beloved. And so, experiencing a bitter death with the passage of each hour, the mine-owner waited for the fatal hour to come. wo days, the gambler bad mentioned as the t of grace; two days, and they were gone! Eighbt-and-forty bours ago, Faro Saul stood there, bis magnificent figure drawn sternly erect, pronouncing his fatal threat. The time was up, and— Witb a low, gasping cry, Marcus Tudor cov- hands, for ‘Saul Oberlin pushed open the glass door which served as a window, and entered the room. _ “Your bumble servant, Waldo St. John!” he uttered in his rich, mellow tones as he ‘ea trust I see you in good bealth and spirits?” Witb a desperate effort Marcus Tudor recov- ered bimself sufficiently to speak: ‘‘Bridle your jeering tongue, you insolent scoundrel! If you feel no respect for my gray hairs, at least try to respect the presence of ! _ A vivid light leaped into those jetty orbs, and there was a poorly disguised eagerness in the tone of the gambler as he leaned forward and muttered hastily: _ “The presence of death? Is he dead—Milo Vincent?” _ “ff not dead, he is dying—and as God is my - np _ judge!” the mine-owner cried with sudden en- te orgy as a revelation seemed to flash upon him, believe you are his vile assassin!” - Great though his self-control, and gifted with _perve beyond the ren ee of his fellows, this sudden charge caused Saul Oberlin to blanch and start back; but only for an instant. Then, with a short, contemptuous laugh, he said: ‘*Indeed? And pray, what particular inter- est have I in his life or death, beyond being one of his fellow-citizens?”’ ‘Because you saw him im your path! Be- cause you knew that as long as he lived, you could never gain your accursed ends!” Swiftly, impetuously Marcus Tudor spoke, and even if his fierce charge resulted in nothing else, it would serve to rouse him from that un- healthy stupor and enable him to make a stout- er fight for life against his merciless foo. ‘‘ ‘You allude to bis rumored love affair with my promised bride, [ suppose?” said Saul, gravely. ‘That has not troubled me in the least, because I knew it could never come to anything. Of course you bave obeyed me— have broken that foolish connection? I do not ask you to turn the r devil out of doors, ‘neck and crop, but at the same time it must be fully understood that my bride is not to act as his nurse. On no other condition will I permit him to remain bere.” Calmly as he spoke, there was something peculiarly insulting in both manner and tone, and the resistance which Marcus Tudor had been preparing ever since he saw that his last chance of ane | that desperate struggle was one, burst iuto a flame as fierce as it was short- ived. “ You permit—you cowardly thief and mid- night assassin! Begone! before I forget myself and stain my hands with the vile blood of one who—Die, you dog!” The moment he gaye way to the pent-up passions which had well nigh rent his beart in twain during those black and hopeless hours of torturing auxiety, Marcus Tudor forgot bhim- self—forgot all save that one who held him by the throat with a grip of steel was standing before him—that unless be could break that grasp, he was doomed! And snatching a pistol from its place of concealment as he uttered that grating curse, he attempted the life of bis enemy. And with ninety-nine men out of one bun- dred, he would have succeeded, so sudden and unberalded came bis action. But the Handsome Hercules proved the one exception, and like thought his gloved hand shot out and arrested the fall of the bammer, twisting the dangerous plaything from that nervous grasp, then push- ing the mine-owner back into his seat. “Easy, my friend,” he uttered, with a cold sneer, as he gently lifted the hammer suf- ficiently to free that portion of his hand which liad furnished a cushion of flesh to protect the primer. ‘Better answer for the murders you have already committed, before plunging into fresh crimes.” “Will you begone?’ huskily repeated Marcus Tudor, making a strenuous effort to hold his own against the giant. ‘If you insist, I will go; but let me tell you what the result will be. I will go—to summon all of Good Enough to the open ground before your doors. I wid reveal to them the history of your past life—of how signally you distin- guished yourself before you left England to be- come an American citizen. It would be a rare, rich treat to the rabble, but how think you the gentle Zurilla would ps Pe With a hollow groan Marcus Tudor covered his eyes and lay back in his chair, conquered once more, and through his great love tor his daughter, In her eyes, his life was spotless, without blur or blemish; at least it had been before that unlucky hour two days ago, when she surprised the parting threat of the gambler. How could he bear to bave this merciless demon tear the vail from his to syn and tell the story of those terrible days? It would be bad enough, toned down by a kind friend: from his lips it would prove far bitterer than death! oor Zurilla, whose trials were already sufficiently severe, how could she bear the terrible, the shameful revelation? ‘* Well, I hardly thought you had the gall to rsist in such a suicidal course,” laughed Faro aul, drawing a chair opposite the mine-owner and seating himself. ‘* You show your wisdom in hauling in your horns a trifle. Why should a fine old gentleman like you play dancing-jack before a swarm of howling, hooting Falots? Why cut off your graceful old age by helping the bangman to twist his good-night neck-tie? Bah! that would be worse than folly, and we'll have noue of it! ‘‘Tnstead, we will bury the black past so deeply that the trump of Gabriel will fail to resurrect it on the Last Day! You will grace- fully intimate to Milo Vincent—if the fine young fellow should be so lucky as to recover from the dastardly assault made on him by that ragamuffin, Weatherwax—that, though he’s migbty good-looking, he can’t come into this nice little pienic;: in less poetical language, give him his walking papers with a kick and a blessing!” ‘‘Never! } cannot—it would kill Aer, poor child!” muttered Marcus Tudor, in a voice that showed how bitterly he was being punished for the sins of his earlier days. “Tl run the risk, and you'll have to. The little bird belongs to me, if not by rights of dis- covery, at least as a partial recompense for the time and Jabor I have spent on ferreting out ——————————— nnn eet et LLL LLL LLL LLL LL LL LLL LLL tt oe eae ou and fastening that tragedy on your head. I will make her a never fear. dne month with me, and I’ll guarantee to blot the very memory of this bread-and-butter love affair of bers from her record of life.” ‘‘Better death than tbat!” witb a flash of spirit which was even more painful to witness than bis supine wretchedness, ‘She an angel, you—it is too, too much!” “There is but one other alternative open to ou,” was the cold, merciless retort. *“ Bither urilla marries me, by her own free will or else induced to do so that you may be saved, I care little which; or else I proclaim to all the world your past history and bave you arrested on the charge of murder.” “It is a lie—false from beginning to end!” ‘‘Is it? Shall I repeat the pleasant tale?’ ‘You can’t prove it—you cannot fasten the deed on my shoulders!” muttered Marcus Tu- dor, hardly conscious of what the words were that dropped from bis trembling lips. ‘** Don’t flatter yourself with tbat vain belief, my dear fellow,” smiled the gambler, settling himself more eomfortably in bis chair and light- ing a fresh cigar. ‘I can prove every letter of my charge. Asa little flyer—listen: ““ Twenty-odd years ago you lived in London, and your best friends knew you as Waldo Bt. John. You had a nice little business, a modest fortune already stowed away, thanks to a wise and frugal father, and yess future looked very cheerful indeed, though there was one thing lacking to complete your bappiness, as you imagined. That was a wife. ‘*For a year or two back you had becn keep- ing an eye open in hopes of s eing some lady whom you would like to fill that vacancy, and at last you believed you bad succeeded. Yow met, courted and married a young girl—” ‘¢ False there, as in all else!” muttered Marcus Tudor, his trembling hands clinching tightly, a reddish light filling bis eyes. ‘‘ She was elder than I, in years as in sin!” ‘‘ Man-like, you seek to cast the blame on her shoulders!” ‘‘ Her first word was a lie—so ber last word, look, action! Sbe was false and base to the very core!” Tbe words dropped in a monotone from the livid lips of the mine-owner, who was seemingly unconscious that he had an auditor until the strong hand of Faro Saul fell upon bis shoulder oe him back to a semblance of his usua se . ‘*Be careful, Waldo St. John!” the gambler hissed through his tightly clinched teeth, his black eves glowing like those of an enraged ser- pent in the gloom. ‘ You will have to answer for all this, and slandering the innocent dead. wili not serve to make your punishment any the lighter! ‘““You married her, and took her to your home. Fora few short weeks you were happy, but then you began to show the cloven hoof. Did the poor child look at a man across the way, you cursed her for it, and accused her of infidelity, in mind if notin person. You nursed your vile suspicions until your jealousy became absolutely unbearable. You made her life a torment, and what might have been a happy, ceful home, a veritable hell on earth!” ‘A hell, true enough,” bitterly muttered the mine owner; ‘“‘ but not of my making! From the very first day of my bringing her home, she began to tear the love-scales from before my eyes. I could bave loved her—I did love ber, else I would never bave —— her my honored, stainless name! But she would not bave itso. She drank, she lied, she swore, she scoffed at eve en Hage and holy, and as often as I woul try to recall her to a sense of decency, she would fall intoa fit of pretended hysterics, and alarm the whole neighborhood, And when the neighbors would rush in, she would fall to sobbing—bah! why tell it all? Her cunning was equal to her impudence, and both were born of tke devil, her sire!” ‘‘That is your side of the picture; but your old neighbors show the reverse in very different colors. They say that you gave the poor cbild not a moment’s peace, save when you were fast locked iv a drunken stupor. They say you were jealous without the slightest cause; that you led her such a life of wretchedness and misery, that they frequently wondered she did not kill you, or go stark crazy; that you taunted, insulted, beat and reviled ber until ber spirit was so ae you would no longer pretend to trust er. “I did trust ber until I could blind my eyes to the bitter black truth no longer!” cried r- cus Tudor, hoarsely. ‘* Wait: when 1 am through then you can take your turn,” said the oig blackleg, coldly, with a wave of his gloved hand. The mine-owner sunk back again, breathing bard, his face deeply lined, bis frame shaken by repeated sbivering-fits. ‘* Your evil thoughts brought their own pun- ishment with them. You were not content to charge her with infidelity, but you longed to discover that which would make your shame patent to the whole world, even as you began to believe it yourself. You told lies, you faidh traps—” ICO com (E <S P ee ee ae ~~ » 5