Down the Ravine by Mary Noailles Murfree
page 69 of 130 (53%)
page 69 of 130 (53%)
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encircling woods, the brown stretch of spent tan, the little gray
shed, and within it, hanging upon a peg, the butternut jeans coat, a stiff white paper protruding from its pocket. That grant, he thought, had taken from him his rights. He would destroy it--he would tear it into bits, and cast it to the turbulent mountain winds. It was not his, to be sure. But was it justly Nate's?--he had no right to enter the land down the ravine. And so Birt argued with his conscience. Now wherever Conscience calls a halt, it is no place for Reason to debate the question. The way ahead is no thoroughfare. Birt did not recognize the tearing of the paper as stealing, but he knew that all this was morally wrong, although he would not admit it. He would not forego his revenge--it was too dear; he was too deeply injured. In the anger that possessed his every faculty, he did not appreciate its futility. There were other facts which he did NOT know. He was ignorant that the deed which he contemplated was a crime in the estimation of the law, a penitentiary offense. And toward this terrible pitfall he trudged in the darkness, saying over and again to himself, "I'll git even with Nate Griggs; he'll hev no grant, no land, no gold--no more 'n me. I'll git even with him." His progress seemed incredibly slow as he groped along the path. |
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