Ah, there was Oncle Jazon! Doubtless he
could tell her all that she wanted to know. She lingered, after
the food was distributed, and shyly inquired.
"Hain't seed the scamp," said Oncle Jazon, only he used the patois
most familiar to the girl's ear. "Killed an' scelped long ago, I
reckon."
His mouth was so full that he spoke mumblingly and with utmost
difficulty. Nor did he glance at Adrienne, whose face took on as
great pallor as her brown complexion could show.
Beverley ate but little of the food. He sat apart on a piece of
timber that projected from the rough breastwork and gave himself
over to infinite misery of spirit, which was trebled when he took
Alice's locket from his bosom, only to discover that the bullet
which struck him had almost entirely destroyed the face of the
miniature.
He gripped the dinted and twisted case and gazed at it with the
stare of a blind man. His heart almost ceased to beat and his
breath had the rustling sound we hear when a strong man dies of a
sudden wound. Somehow the defacement of the portrait was taken by
his soul as the final touch of fate, signifying that Alice was
forever and completely obliterated from his life. He felt a blur
pass over his mind. He tried in vain to recall the face and form
so dear to him; he tried to imagine her voice; but the whole
universe was a vast hollow silence.
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