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Updated: June 12, 2025
"I don't know why I ever got you into this tangle," she lamented, "I don't know what made me so selfish and so blind." "It's just one more little complication in Ascalon's sickness," he comforted her, "it doesn't amount to beans. The poor little fool was so scared that morning he could hardly lift his gun. He'll never make another break." "If I only thought he wouldn't!
Although the Byrons have for so many ages been among the eminent families of the realm, they have no claim to the distinction which the poet has set up for them as warriors in Palestine, even though he says Near Ascalon's tow'rs John of Horestan slumbers;
The poet, relying on old wood-carvings at Newstead, claims for some of his ancestors a part in the crusades, and mentions a name not apparently belonging to that age Near Ascalon's towers, John of Horestan slumbers a romance, like many of his, possibly founded on fact, but incapable of verification.
Half a mile or so along the road, Fred passed her, bending low as he rode, as if his desire left the saddle and carried him ahead of his horse; a little while, and Stilwell thundered by, leaving her last and alone on that road leading to what adventures her heart shrunk in her bosom to contemplate. Ahead of her the smoke of Ascalon's destruction rose high.
He was lacking in his ready words, older, it seemed, by many years, crushed under the weight of this terrible calamity that had fallen on his town. He went away after the sheriff, leaving Morgan and Rhetta, the last actors on the stage in the drama of Ascalon's downfall, alone. Beyond them the fire raged in the completion of the havoc that was far beyond any human labor to stay.
The eastern immigration agents of the railroad were spreading the news of Ascalon's pacification with gratifying result. Already parties of Illinois and Indiana farmers, who had been looking to that country for a good while, were preparing to come out and scout for locations. "They're getting tired of farming that high-priced land, Morgan.
The hasty ones who had waited on the car platform were down ahead of him, standing a little way from the steps; others who wanted to get off came pressing behind him, in their ignorance that they were handling a bit of Ascalon's most infernal furnishing, pushing him out into the timid crowd of their fellows.
Why haven't you been in? you seem to be in such a hurry always." "I wanted to spare you what you can't see in the dark," he said, the vindictive spirit of Ascalon's insanity upon him. "What I can't see in the dark?" she repeated, as if perplexed. "My face." "You shouldn't say that," she chided, but not with the hearty sincerity that a friend would like to hear. "Are you going back to town?"
This left twenty feet of dusty white road unoccupied, a margin on the page where this remarkable incident in Ascalon's record of tragedies was being written. Midway of his line of captives, six feet in front of the nearest man, Morgan kindled a fire, adding wood as the blaze grew, apparently as oblivious of his surroundings as if in a camp a hundred miles from a house.
He could not forget in going away, but distance and time might exorcise the spirit that attended him, and dim away the accusing pain of that terrified face. Ascalon's curse of blood had descended to him; it was no mitigation in her eyes that he had slain for her. But he had brought her security. Although he had paid the tremendous price, he had given her nights of peace.
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