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Presently a voice crept through the stillness. "Fingall! Oh, Fingall! Fingall!" It was the voice of a woman returning from the dead. "Read on, Pierre," the sick man said, doubling the corner of the wolf- skin pillow so that it shaded his face from the candle.

Her head sank upon his shoulder, her eyes closed; she slept. Fingall laid her down with a sob in his throat; then he sat up and clutched Pierre's hand. "In the East, where the doctors cured me, I heard all," he said, pointing to her, "and I came to find her. I was just in time; I found her yesterday." "She knew you?" whispered Pierre. "Yes, but this fever came on."

I think he did not expect to stay; he seemed to be waiting for something always when the mail come in he would be there; and afterwards you wouldn't see him for a time. So it seemed to me that he made up his mind to think nothing of Cynthie, and to say nothing." "Fingall! Fingall! Oh, Fingall!" The strange, sweet, singing voice sounded nearer. "She's coming this way, Pierre," said Lawless.

Then we told her that Fingall was not dead. She used to come and sit outside the door, and listen to his breathing, and ask if he ever spoke of her. What was the good of lying? If we said he did, she'd have come in to him, and that would do no good, for he wasn't right in his mind.

"But," said Lawless, not heeding the scene, "what about that sixth bullet?" "Holy, it is plain! Fingall did not fire the shot. His revolver was full, every chamber, when Cynthie first took it." "Who killed the lad?" "Can you not guess? There had been words between the father and the boy: both had fierce blood.

He turned and looked at her, and, kneeling, smoothed away the hair from the quiet face. "Poor girl!" he said; "poor girl!" "She will get well?" asked Pierre. "God grant it!" Fingall replied. "She is better better." Lawless and Pierre softly turned and stole away, leaving the man alone with the woman he loved. The two stood in silence, looking upon the river beneath.

But Elspeth was abroad, and the messenger returned without her." "Then will I go myself and find her," said Kenric. So he went down into the courtyard and called his favourite hound Fingall, that he might have companionship in his quest. But the dog gave no answer to his call, and searching for it he found the animal lying moaning in a corner of the yard and writhing as in pain.

He turned and looked at her, and, kneeling, smoothed away the hair from the quiet face. "Poor girl!" he said; "poor girl!" "She will get well?" asked Pierre. "God grant it!" Fingall replied. "She is better better." Lawless and Pierre softly turned and stole away, leaving the man alone with the woman he loved. The two stood in silence, looking upon the river beneath.

Presently Pierre continued: Fingall was gentil; he would take off his hat to a squaw. It made no difference what others did; he didn't think it was like breathing to him. How can you tell the way things happen? Cynthie's father kept the tavern at St. Gabriel's Fork, over against the great saw-mill. Fingall was foreman of a gang in the lumberyard. Cynthie had a brother Fenn.

No Catholic commanded a battalion, scarcely half a dozen were field officers. The only Catholic field officer appointed to the Division who had been prominently connected with the Volunteers was Lord Fingall, and he had severed his connection with that body. All this was a terrible blunder.