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Updated: May 7, 2025
I muttered something about the weather, lighted a candle at the fire, and moved past them to the door of my room. "Why, Douw," asked Daisy, half rising as she spoke, "what has happened? There's blood on your ruffles! Where is your neckcloth?" I made answer, standing with my hand upon the latch, and glowering at her: "The blood comes from my Tulp's broken head: I used my neckcloth to tie it up.
Tulp's sooty face took on a more dubious look, if that were possible. He humbly suggested that I had chosen a roundabout route; perhaps I was going by the way of the Healing Springs. But it must be a long, lonesome road, and the rain was coming on. Sure enough the sky was darkening: a storm was in the air, and already the distant mountain-tops were hidden from view by the rain-mist.
It thus happened that I saw very little of the people at the Cedars, and had no real talk again with Daisy, until a full week had passed. It was a cool, overcast forenoon when I alighted next at the familiar gate, and gave my horse into Tulp's charge.
For years I could not visit the spot without hearing, in and above the ceaseless shouting of the waters, poor mad Tulp's awful death-scream. During the month immediately following the event, my time was closely engaged in public work.
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