‘Well, nothing,’ uttered her betrothed crossly, before Gerald could answer. "I'll gibbet the rascal. A victim of one of those mental typhoons that scatter irretrievably the barriers of instinct and breeding; and he had gone on the rocks all in a moment. Sheppard, with a laugh that cut the ears of those who listened to it like a razor,—"Do not despair! And who or what shall give me comfort when my son is gone? I have wept till my eyes are dry,—suffered till my heart is broken,—prayed till the voice of prayer is dumb,—and all of no avail. “Accident! She shot me,” he muttered. ‘Do you swear it? There’s no knowing if one can believe you.
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