" An
expression of the deepest anxiety settled upon his countenance. He
finished reading the list of survivors, and a transient feeling of
satisfaction was visible on his face. When in the list of the "missing"
he read the name of "Miss Dumont, Antoine De Guy and Henry Carroll," a
smile as of glutted revenge and malignant hatred dispelled the cloud of
anxiety which had before brooded over his features. Throwing down the
sheet, he drank off a glass of brandy, which had been waiting his
pleasure on the table. The potion was not insignificant in quantity or
strength, and the wry face he made did not add to the amiability of his
expression. As the dose permeated his brain, and produced that agreeable
lightness which is the first phase of intoxication, he rubbed his hands
with childish delight, and half muttered an expression of pleasure.
Suddenly his countenance assumed its former lowering aspect, his brows
knit, and his lips compressed.
"Missing!" muttered he. "What the devil does _missing_ mean? What can it
mean but dead, defunct, gone to a better world, as the canting
hypocrites say?"
But we will not attempt to record the muttered soliloquy of the
gentleman,--Jaspar Dumont, who had reached Vicksburg that day, from the
wood-yard where we left him.
Pages:
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260