The Secret Shot; Or, The Rivals Of Misty Mount — page 38: what you’re looking at

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

rat > Sa rT? - 7 > os 36 THE SECRET SHOT. FA care of the wounded and to bury the dead. As upon the first night of his march, Cleaveland was anxious and restless, and, when most of the troops, victors and van- guished, were reposing in the moonlight, he sat, as before, alone and despairing by a camp-fire. Unable to control his anxiety, which eyery moment increased, he strolled around the plain, and, at length, hardly caring whither his steps tended, he went down the mountain among the trees. The deeper gloom of the forest seemed to ac- cord more congenially with the mood of his spirit. As he walked through the trees toward a little open glade, which he had descried, he heard the sound of other foot- steps than his own, and he paused expect- antly, with his hand on his sword. The footsteps came from the opposite direction, and were very near. To his utter, joyous astonishment, a human form strode into the bright moonlight of the little glade, and that form was Heartstead Gleason’s ! Cleayeland unsheathed his weapon, and sprung to meet him. “At last! at last!’ he shouted, with a terrible rapture in his tones. Heartstead also drew his weapon. On the gloomy, haggard visage of the young Tory there also sat an expression of grim satisfaction as he faced his foe. “This is to be to the death !” he growled. “Thank God we are alone!” “Ay, thank God we are alone!” ex- claimed Cleayeland ; and he crossed swords with his enemy without further preface. It was a terrible thing, these lonely men preparing for a deadly contest there in the profound, moonlighted solitude of that little glade in the forest. Both dextrous swords- men, they fought for many moments in si- Jent suspense, without either attaining any particular advantage. At length, however, Cleaveland was slightly wounded in the hand, and retaliated by pricking his adver- sary in return, Then Heartstead, losing patience, rushed in desperately, and was met by a hand as steady, a temper as fierce as his own. They closed. In the terrible struggle which ensued, Cleayetand received another and severe wound. The fight merged into a kind of desperate wrestle with their left hands, their swords playing fiercely from their right. An unlucky twig or tuft of grass caught the colonel’s foot as he was maneuyering backward, and he fell heavily on his back, the onset of the Tory being so close and impetuous that he also stumbled and fell upon his prostrate foe. Almost despairing, but gathering his re- maining strength, Cleaveland was preparing for a superhuman effort to release himself and continue the contest, when he was as- tonished to feel his adversary still lying heavily, but almost motionless, upon him, Casting him off, he rose to his feet, when the prostrate Hearistead rolled over, his face uppermost, and a little rill of blood was spouting from a wound in his breast. He had stumbled forward with his whole weight on the point of the colonel’s sword ; and the contest was over. Hestill breathed, but it was evident that the wound was mor- tal, for the life-blood sprung out in fitful jets with every heave of the laboring chest. His cheek was very white, and his eyes rolled terribly, as he made a feeble motion with his hand for his adversary to draw nearer. Cleayeland knelt by the side of the dying man, and inclined his ear to catch his last words. “ Forgive—forgive me!” gasped the suf- ferer, with the utmost difficulty. “Ida is safe as yet—but still in danger—hid in cay- ern—northern side Misty Mount—half-way up. Lose not a moment! Fly to her! She is still in danger—awful danger! Ju- dith, the fiend—the—” The death-rattle in his throat cut ‘short the disconnected sentence. The wounded Tory clutched the grass with his outstretched hands, gasped for breath, and fell back—a corpse. Cleaveland arose to his feet and eyed the body of his foe with that mournful, respect- ful glance which is the victor’s tribute to vanquished valor. There were remmants of manly beauty in the white face of the dead Tory—old, old beauty, it is true, long since depraved and almost obliterated, but a beau- ty which might have promised better things in better days. But such feclings as were produced in the victor by this mournful spectacle soon gavé place to livelier and more important emotions. From what he had gathered from the brief confession of the dying man, it was evident that Ida was still in imminent peril —from whom he could scarcely imagine, as he had never before heard of Judith ; nevertheless his anxiety was strung to the highest pitch. He returned to thé camp, to confer with his superior immediately, and, cost what it might, procure a furlough to revisit the valley. But this ceremony was Gomicbdooks (CO)