There he lay, the
rude smuggler, turned gently upon his side, one cheek pressing the
pillow. Death had effaced from his countenance every trace of the
stormy passions which raged in his breast when the fatal bullet struck
him, and had sealed it with even a pleasant serenity.
Not so with the compeers of his race, who encircled the coffin. _They_
scowled a fierce fury from beneath their bushy brows and muttered vows
of vengeance. The rays of the sun, now rapidly declining, shot into
their angry faces, the evening breeze shook out their matted locks of
hair. A peculiar glow was cast over their wild, Erin features, now
gleaming with unholy passion.
Mr. Norton bent for a few minutes over the coffin, while an expression
of sorrow and deep commiseration overspread his countenance. Then he
stepped upon a slight knoll of ground near by, raised himself to his
full height and began to speak in a voice that rose above the crowd,
clear, melodious, full and penetrating as the notes of a bugle. It
thrilled on every ear and drew instant attention.
"Friends, brethren, fellow-sinners, one of our number has been
suddenly struck down by the relentless hand of death, and we are here
to pay the last honors to his mortal remains,--each and all to learn a
solemn lesson while standing at the mouth of the grave. Brethren, we
are to learn anew from this occasion that death often comes to man
with the suddenness of the lightning flash. One moment before your
comrade was struck by the fatal bullet, his eye glowed as keenly and
his right arm was as powerful as yours.
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