and muttering to himself. But a few hours had
elapsed since he had left that room a bold, daring, desperate man; yet in
that short time a frightful change had come over him. His eyes were
blood-red; his lips swollen and bloody, and the under one deeply gashed,
as if he had bitten it through; his cheeks haggard and hollow, his hair
dishevelled, his dress torn, and almost dragged from his person. But it
was not in the outward man alone that this alteration had taken place. In
spirit, as well as in frame, he was crushed. His former iron bearing was
gone; no energy, no strength left. He seemed but a wreck, shattered and
beaten down--down to the very dust. At times he mumbled to himself, and
moaned like one in suffering. Then again he rose and paced the room with
long strides, dashing his hand against his forehead, and uttering
execrations. The next moment he staggered to his seat, buried his face in
his hands, and sobbed like a child.

'Tim,' said he, in a low broken voice, 'poor old Tim; I killed you, I know
I did; but blast ye! I loved you, Tim. But it's of no use, now; you're
dead, and can never know how much poor Bill Jones cared for you. No, no;
you never can, Tim. We were boys together, and now I'm alone; no one
left--no one, _no_ one!'

In the very phrenzy of grief, that succeeded these words, he flung himself
upon the floor, dashing his head and hands against it, and rolling and
writhing like one in mortal pain. This outbreak of passion was followed by
a kind of stupor; and crawling to his seat, he remained there, like one
stunned and bereft of strength. Stolid, scarcely breathing, and but for
the twitching of his fingers, motionless as stone; with his eyes fixed on
the blank wall, he sat as silent as one dead; but with a heart on fire,
burning with a remorse never to be quenched; with a soul hurrying and
darting to and fro in its mortal tenement, to escape the lashings of
conscience. Struggle on! struggle on! There is no escape, until that
strong heart is eaten away by a disease for which there is no cure; until
that iron frame, worn down by suffering, has become food for the worm, and
that spirit and its persecutor stand before their final judge, in the
relations of criminal and accuser.

A heavy step announced that some one was ascending the stairs. Jones moved
not. A loud knock at the door followed. Still he did not stir. The door
was then flung open, in no very gentle manner, for it struck the wall
behind it