"They are Clarke's!" said the woman, who had first given rise to that supposition.—"Yes, we think they are Daniel Clarke's—he who disappeared some years ago!" cried two or three voices in concert.
"Clarke's?" repeated Houseman, stooping down and picking up a thigh-bone, which lay at a little distance from the rest; "Clarke's?—ha! ha! they are no more Clarke's than mine!"
"Behold!" shouted Walter, in a voice that rang from cliff to plain,—and springing forward, he seized Houseman with a giant's grasp.—"Behold the Murderer!"
As if the avenging voice of Heaven had spoken, a thrilling, an electric conviction, darted through the crowd. Each of the elder spectators remembered at once the person of Houseman, and the suspicion that had attached to his name.
"Seize him! seize him!" burst forth from twenty voices; "Houseman is the murderer!"
"Murderer!" faltered Houseman, trembling in
