lines of the paper."

Septimius was surprised, or deeply impressed, to see that through this
paper, as well as through the miniature, had gone his fatal
bullet,--straight through the midst; and some of the young man's blood,
saturating his dress, had wet the paper all over. He hardly thought
himself likely to derive any good from what it had cost a human life,
taken (however uncriminally) by his own hands, to obtain.

"Is there anything more that I can do for you?" asked he, with genuine
sympathy and sorrow, as he knelt by his fallen foe's side.

"Nothing, nothing, I believe," said he. "There was one thing I might have
confessed; if there were a holy man here, I might have confessed, and
asked his prayers; for though I have lived few years, it has been long
enough to do a great wrong! But I will try to pray in my secret soul. Turn
my face towards the trunk of the tree, for I have taken my last look at
the world. There, let me be now."

Septimius did as the young man requested, and then stood leaning against
one of the neighboring pines, watching his victim with a tender concern
that made him feel as if the convulsive throes that passed through his
frame were felt equally in his own. There was a murmuring from the youth's
lips which seemed to Septimius swift, soft, and melancholy, like the voice
of a child when it has some naughtiness to confess to its mother at
bedtime; contrite, pleading, yet trusting. So it continued for a few
minutes; then there was a sudden start and struggle, as if he were
striving to rise; his eyes met those of Septimius with a wild, troubled
gaze, but as the latter caught him in his arms, he was dead. Septimius
laid the body softly down on the leaf-strewn earth, and tried, as he had