nearly fallen in the eagerness with which they had burst through the opening.
O’Brien was just disappearing over the edge of the cliff, down which there was a narrow path that one so expert and active found no difficulty in descending even by night. Below was a deep gully full of broken rocks, over which the stream tumbled into the lake; but just beyond this convulsion, and still under the shelter of the cliff, lay a tranquil little inlet girdled by a stripe of white sand on which a canoe was drawn up. It was evidently O’Brien’s aim to reach this canoe, and, determined to prevent him, Keefe swung himself over the rocks, and began to follow him, trusting that his skill as a cragsman would enable him to reach the canoe first. But before he had gone more than two or three steps, Denis, leaning over, shouted to O’Brien to stop, or he would fire; whether he actually intended to fire or not, Denis himself could not tell, but as he stood with his finger on the trigger, the Young Panther rushed forward, and threw up his arm; the pistol went off, but the bullet fell into the water. O’Brien, perhaps, had swerved aside at the sound of the shot, in order to avoid it, and thus lost his balance; or, perhaps, in his haste and confusion his foot slipped, but however it happened, he lost his footing, and after one desperate effort to recover it, fell head foremost on the rocks below. The screams of the Young Panther when she saw her lover’s head dashed against the rocks were fearful, and then looking round in a frenzy of wild rage and anguish, her eyes encountered Coral, who had followed Keefe and Denis out of the lodge.
“You were the cause of this!” exclaimed the Young Panther. “Come now, then, and share his fate,” and seizing Coral with a strong and resolute grasp, she dragged her to the edge of the precipice before Denis knew what she was doing. One moment more, and she would have flung both herself and Coral over, but Keefe coming back from his pursuit of O’Brien, was just in time to tear Coral from her passionate grasp: obliged to yield her victim, the Young Panther uttered one long, wild Indian cry, and sprang over the cliff, sharing with the fierce fidelity of her nature the death of him to whom she had devoted her existence.
“You are safe, Coral! you are safe!” said Keefe, still holding her in his arms. And clinging to him, as an infant clings to its mother, Coral only knew that she was with Keefe once more.
THE LAST SHEFFIELD OUTRAGES.
I do not know Sheffield—I never was there except once; and that was merely passing through, in the old days of stage-coaches. In my curiosity to learn what it must feel like to belong to Sheffield, I sometimes recal the image of the place as it exists in my memory;—the surrounding green hills, the churches, and the clean streets with the tall chimneys rising out of them, and the multitude of work-people going to or from their meals. Nothing that I remember helps me to understand what it can be like to live at Sheffield; and I do not know anybody there. My only Sheffield acquaintance was in the last generation; and I could not question him about what I wanted to know, because it was a sore subject to him. I wanted then, and I want now, to know what it can be like to live among murderers. Whether there are many murderers or few in the population is not the main point. As long as “Sheffield outrages” are as well known as Sheffield whittles and Sheffield plate ever were, it must be a matter of curiosity to strangers how any citizen feels at living among murderers. The reason why I could not ask the question of my Sheffield acquaintance was that his father had had a narrow escape from being murdered. The old gentleman was one of the chief citizens, a generation ago: he had devoted his life to the welfare of the town and its inhabitants: he had spent his money generously in the support of good institutions and the promotion of improvements; he was as kindly in manners as he was generous in temper: he was in no way concerned with manufacturing disputes; yet it was discovered that there was a plot to murder him. He had done or said something in the ordinary course of his duty as magistrate which somebody did not like: and the natural result, according to the Sheffield theory of causation, was that he should be murdered. Since that for remote incident my attention, like that of many others, has been a good deal directed to that particular town; and some of the inhabitants seem determined that we shall not lose sight of it. If we ever happen to be engrossed in other interests, so as to fancy that Sheffield is becoming civilised, we are sure to see, some day, on opening the newspaper, a paragraph headed “Outrage at Sheffield.” A bottle or a tin case full of powder, with a burning fuse attached, has been thrown in at some window, or down some chimney or cellar, and there has been an explosion; unless, by dint of familiarity with the practice, the intended victim has presence of mind enough to throw the apparatus out of the window. Sometimes the method is varied, and shooting is substituted, or stabbing; but there is never any long interval between the attempts on the life of A, B, C, or D, on account, usually, of some trade dispute. I try in vain to fancy what it must be to walk about the town every day, pretty certain of meeting somebody who has been more or less concerned in an “outrage.” Some of us find it interesting at a rural festival, in a game country, to look at the rustic faces and figures, and fancy which of them have been present at some “murderous attack on gamekeepers:” but the case of the poacher is simple and intelligible in comparison with that of the perpetrators of “Sheffield outrages.” Have we, in walking along the street, looked into the face of a fellow who has examined a fellow-workman’s window, learned where the bed stands in the room, procured the tin case and the powder, packed in the charge, attached the fuse, lurked about the house till everybody was in bed, climbed up or peeped down, lighted the fuse, thrown in the machine, and stood watching afar, while a man’s or woman’s eyes were blown out, and their bed and clothes set on fire? How does the Master Cutler feel as the head of a trade in which such things are done? How do Mr. Roebuck and Mr.
