constellations. He was sure they were arranged in some order which had a
secret and malign significance. The wood on either side was full of
singular noises, among which--once, twice, and again--he distinctly
heard whispers in an unknown tongue.

His neck was in pain and lifting his hand to it he found it horribly
swollen. He knew that it had a circle of black where the rope had
bruised it. His eyes felt congested; he could no longer close them. His
tongue was swollen with thirst; he relieved its fever by thrusting it
forward from between his teeth into the cold air. How softly the turf
had carpeted the untraveled avenue--he could no longer feel the roadway
beneath his feet!

Doubtless, despite his suffering, he had fallen asleep while walking,
for now he sees another scene--perhaps he has merely recovered from a
delirium. He stands at the gate of his own home. All is as he left it,
and all bright and beautiful in the morning sunshine. He must have
traveled the entire night. As he pushes open the gate and passes up the
wide white walk, he sees a flutter of female garments; his wife, looking
fresh and cool and sweet, steps down from the veranda to meet him. At
the bottom of the steps she stands waiting, with a smile of ineffable
joy, an attitude of matchless grace and dignity. Ah, how beautiful she
is! He springs forward with extended arms. As he is about to clasp her
he feels a stunning blow upon the back of the neck; a blinding white
light blazes all about him with a sound like the shock of a cannon--then
all is darkness and silence!

Peyton Farquhar was dead; his body, with a broken neck, swung gently
from side to side beneath the timbers of the Owl Creek bridge.