Page:Maud Howe - Atlanta in the South.djvu/177

Robert Feuardent, lying writhing in the dark corner, with clenched hands striking at his breast, his head, the senseless earth beneath him, suffered mortally as the hot drops sprang from his eyes. In his agony he called upon the name of a man who had been dead many weeks, with a passionate remorse and tenderness; and mingled with these scarce intelligible words of entreaty was his own father's name and that of some woman spoken harshly and reproachfully. It was a grievous sight, this strong man laid low in his pride of youth and beauty, a sight which would have touched the heart of any of God's creatures capable of pity; but in the woman who had followed him, and was now standing near by hidden in the shrubbery, there was no pity, only a savage exultation at his pain. She too called upon the name of a dead man in whispered tones,—the name of her dead lover; but it was with a cruel glee that she conjured him to look from his grave and see her vengeance. The young man rose to his knees now, and prayed aloud that he might die, that the burden of sorrow might be lifted from him; he could not bear it longer. His own sin, the sin of him to whom he owed his life, the sins of that lost woman,—all were weighing upon him and pressing him down, down into a depth of despair blacker than any hell!