of that aid which Sarsefield was able to afford. Was it not inhuman to desert him in this extremity? What Offence had he committed that deserved such implacable vengeance? Nothing I had heard from Sarsefield was in contradiction to his own story. His deed, imperfectly observed, would appear to be atrocious and detestable; but the view of all its antecedent and accompanying events and motives, would surely place it in the list, not of crimes, but of misfortunes.
But what is that guilt which no penitence can expiate? Had not Clithero's remorse been more than adequate to crimes far more deadly and enormous than this? This, however, was no time to argue with the passions of Sarsefield. Nothing but a repetition of Clithero's tale could vanquish his prepossessions and mollify his rage; but this repetition was impossible to be given by me till a moment of safety and composure.
These thoughts made me linger, but hindered me from attempting to change the determination of my friend. He renewed his importunities for me to fly with him—he dragged me by the arm; and, wavering and reluctant, I followed where he chose to lead. He crossed the common room with hurried steps, and eyes averted from a figure which instantly fastened my attention.
It was, indeed, Clithero whom I now beheld, supine, polluted with blood, his eyes closed, and apparently insensible: this object was gazed at with emotions that rooted me to the spot. Sarsefield, perceiving me determined to remain where I was, rushed out of the house, and disappeared.
CHAPTER XXVII.
I hung over the unhappy wretch, whose emaciated form and rueful features sufficiently bespoke that savage hands had only completed that destruction which his miseries had begun. He was mangled by the tomahawk in a shocking
