she should recognize him, would recoil in
disgust and loathing.

"_C'en est fini_," Livingstone said to De Rosny, who stood by shuddering
in horror, not at the death, but at the treachery which had preceded it.

None but a Frenchman could have given such an accent to the low, hissing
reply, "_Je l'espere_."

Then they looked to Mohun's wound; it was nothing serious: there were a
dozen deeper on the warworn body and limbs. Indeed, I imagine his
general health was materially benefited by the blood-letting. The first
remark he made was when he was depositing his pistol in its
case--tenderly as you would lay a child in its cradle--"Do you believe
in presentiments _now_, Guy?"

The sullen sun broke out just as they turned to go, and peered curiously
through the boughs, till it found out and lighted on the angular ominous
heap, shrouded with a cloak, that, ten minutes ago, was a strong,
hot-blooded man.

There the _garde_ soon after discovered Horace Levinge; and, when he had
been owned, they buried him in _Pere la Chaise_. Such events were common
then, and the police gave themselves no trouble to trace who had slain
the stranger. Among his tribes-men and kinsfolk in Houndsditch and the
Minories there was great joy at first, and afterward bitter, endless
litigation. They screamed and battled over the heritage like vultures
over a mighty carrion, tearing it at length piecemeal. He did not keep a
pet dog, and so no living creature regretted him, unless it were the
thin, delicate girl, with white cheeks and hollow eyes, who came once,
and knelt to pray by his grave for hours, her tears falling fast.

Hard as they may find it to observe other precepts of the Great Master,
this one, at least, most women have practiced easily and naturally for
eighteen hundred years: "Forgive, until seventy times seven." The acts
of some of these--how they warred with their husbands and were worsted;
how they provoked the presiding Draco, and stultified the attesting
policeman by obstinately ignoring their injuries, written legibly in
red, and black, and blue; how they interceded with many sobs for the
aggressor--are they not written in the book of the chronicles of
Bow-street and Clerkenwell?

This propensity leads them into scrapes, it is true, for our world, in
its wisdom, will take advantage of such weakness. Perhaps the next will
make them some amends.

But the mourner strewed no flowers on the grave. It would have been too
bitter a