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Updated: June 8, 2025
That night the girl's father killed himself, and the two were buried in the same grave. Cynthie " "Fingall! Fingall! Oh, Fingall!" "You hear? Yes, like that all the time as she sat on the floor, her hair about her like a cloud, and the dead bodies in the next room. She thought she had killed Fingall, and she knew now that he was innocent. The two were buried.
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."
"Fingall!" broke out Pierre, and caught the kneeling man by the shoulder. At the sound of his voice the woman's eyes opened. "Fingall! Oh, Fingall!" she said, and reached up a hand. Fingall stooped and caught her to his breast: "Cynthie! poor girl! Oh, my poor Cynthie!" he said. In his eyes, as in hers, was a sane light, and his voice, as hers, said indescribable things.
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.
"The door is open," she answered quickly and with a quiet joy. He turned to the motion of her hand, and saw Laforce asleep on a couch. Soon afterwards, as he passed from the house, he turned towards the window. The broken shutter was gone. He knew now the meaning of the bonfire the night before. "Fingall! Fingall! Oh, Fingall!"
Fenn was as bad as they make, but she loved him, and Fingall knew it well, though he hated the young skunk. The girl's eyes were like two little fire-flies when Fingall was about. "He was a gentleman, though he had only half a name Fingall like that.
It was a sweet, fresh autumn morning in Lonesome Valley. Before night the deer would bellow reply to the hunters' rifles, and the mountain-goat call to its unknown gods; but now there was only the wild duck skimming the river, and the high hilltop rising and fading into the mist, the ardent sun, and again that strange cry "Fingall! Oh, Fingall! Fingall!"
Between him and Desmond there existed the bitterest animosity. In 1464, nine of the Deputy's men were slain in a broil in Fingall, by tenants or servants of the Bishop. The next year each party repaired to London to vindicate himself and criminate his antagonist.
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.
"Fingall!" broke out Pierre, and caught the kneeling man by the shoulder. At the sound of his voice the woman's eyes opened. "Fingall! Oh, Fingall!" she said, and reached up a hand. Fingall stooped and caught her to his breast: "Cynthie! poor girl! Oh, my poor Cynthie!" he said. In his eyes, as in hers, was a sane light, and his voice, as hers, said indescribable things.
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