A terrible spectacle was presented to the young man's gaze:—the floor deluged with blood—the mangled and lifeless body of Mrs. She must weigh her situation. “What is the good of talking?” said her brother. Perhaps some one had kissed the brow that was now so cadaverous, rubbed that sunken cheek with loving fingers, held that stringy neck with passionately living hands. Our ideal had fallen. Lucy jammed her foot down onto Mark McCloskey’s forehead. Curses light on the horse!" he added, seizing the bridle of his steed, who continued snorting and shivering, as if still under the influence of some unaccountable alarm; "what can ail him?" "I know what ails him, your honour," rejoined the groom, riding up as he spoke; "he's seen somethin' not o' this world. Let me bind you up, and then you can attend to her. I often wonder why the young always take us ancients for nambypamby creatures.
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