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Updated: May 18, 2025
'Twas about midnight in the village of Marsden. Darkness enveloped it as a mourning garment. The Duquettes had not yet retired to rest. Mrs. Duquette had been kept up by an ailing child. She was sitting with her little one on her knee. Suddenly there was a detonation and a crash of glass. A whizzing bullet lodged in the face of the clock above Mrs. Duquette's head. Who fired the shot?
L , "whether Donald set fire to the Duquette's place or not, but I know that his real or fancied wrongs have made him morose and irritable aye, I will add, dangerous. You are a married man, Mr. "Yes." "You have a family?" "Yes." "Take my advice," said Mr. L impressively. "Don't try to execute this warrant. Go straight back to Sherbrooke." "But my duty," said Mr. A irresolutely.
Our readers are familiar with the agrarian troubles in which Donald Morrison has been figuring for some time past. They have also been apprised that, upon the burning of Duquette's homestead, suspicion at once fell upon Donald. A warrant, charging him with arson, was sworn out against him, and a man named Warren undertook to execute it.
What was it? Would anything else happen, and when would it happen? The villagers were not kept long in suspense. A few nights afterwards there was a lurid glare in the sky. It was red, and sinister, and quivering. What could it mean? Was it a celestial portent which thus wrote itself upon the face of the heavens? The villagers assembled in alarm. "Why, it's Duquette's place on fire!"
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