While dwelling on the crime he has committed, he only dreads its
consequences to himself; but, reflecting on what led him to commit it,
his dread gives place to dire jealousy; and, instead of repentance,
spite holds possession of his heart. Not the less bitter, that the man
and woman who made him jealous can never meet more. For, at that hour,
he knows Charles Clancy to be lying dead in the dank swamp; while, ere
dawn of the following day, Helen Armstrong will be starting upon a
journey which must take her away from the place, far, and for ever.

The only consolation he draws from her departure is, that she, too, will
be reflecting spitefully and bitterly as himself. Because of Clancy not
having kept his appointment with her; deeming the failure due to the
falsehood by himself fabricated--the story of the Creole girl.

Withal, it affords him but scant solace. She will be alike gone from
him, and he may never behold her again. Her beauty will never belong to
his rival; but neither can it be his, even though chance might take him
to Texas, or by design he should proceed thither. To what end should
he? No more now can he build castles in the air, basing them on the
power of creditor over debtor. That bubble has burst, leaving him only
the reflection, how illusory it has been. Although, for his nefarious
purpose, it has proved weak as a spider's web, it is not likely Colonel
Armstrong will ever again submit himself to be so ensnared. Broken men
become cautious, and shun taking credit a second time.

And yet Richard Darke does not comprehend this. Blinded by passion, he
cannot see any impossibility, and already thoughts of future proceedings
begin to flit vaguely through his mind. They are too distant to be
dwelt upon now. For this night he has enough to occupy heart and
brain--keeping both on the rack and stretch, so tensely as to render
prolonged sleep impossible. Only for a few seconds at a time does he
know the sweet unconsciousness of slumber; then, suddenly starting
awake, to be again the prey of galling reflections.

Turn to which side he will, rest his head on the pillow as he may, two
sounds seem ever ringing in his ears--one, a woman's voice, that speaks
the denying word, "Never!"--the other, a dog's bark, which seems
persistently to say, "I demand vengeance for my murdered master!"

If, in the first night after his nefarious deed, fears and jealous
fancies chase one another through the assassin's