Shipley had dismounted, and had nearly made a breach by pulling
down the rails, when, the irregular challenge was repeated directly in
our front, and we made out a group of three dark figures about
thirty-five yards off.
"Give your names, and where you are going, or I'll fire."
"He's very fond of firing," I said in an undertone to Shipley, and then
spoke out aloud. (I saw at once the utter impossibility of escape, even
if we could have found our way back, without quitting our horses, which
I never dreamt of.)
"If you'll come here, I'll tell you all about it."
I could not have advanced if I had wished it; in broad day the fence
would have been barely practicable. I spoke those exact words in a tone
purposely measured and calm, so that they should not be mistaken by our
assailants: I have good reason to remember them, for they were the last
I ever uttered on American ground as a free agent. They had hardly
passed my lips, when a rifle cracked; I felt a dull numbing blow inside
my left knee, and a sensation as if hot sealing-wax was trickling there;
at the same instant, Falcon dropped under me--without a start or
struggle, or sound besides a horrible choking sob--shot right through
the jugular vein.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE ROAD TO AVERNUS.
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