‘with all the sweet affection of her pure and noble nature.’
But he had a rival, a ‘base hireling’ named Archibald Lynch,
who said the girl should be his, or he would ‘dye his hands
in her heart’s best blood.’ The carpenter, ‘innocent and
happy in love’s young dream,’ gave no weight to the threat,
but led his ‘golden-haired darling to the altar,’ and there,
the two were made one; there also, just as the minister’s hands
were stretched in blessing over their heads, the fell deed was done–
with a knife–and the bride fell a corpse at her husband’s feet.
And what did the husband do? He plucked forth that knife,
and kneeling by the body of his lost one, swore to ‘consecrate
his life to the extermination of all the human scum that bear
the hated name of Lynch.’
That was it. He had been hunting down the Lynches and slaughtering them,
from that day to this–twenty years. He had always used that same
consecrated knife; with it he had murdered his long array of Lynches,
and with it he had left upon the forehead of each victim a peculiar mark–
a cross, deeply incised. Said he–
‘The cross of the Mysterious Avenger is known in Europe, in America,
in China, in Siam, in the Tropics, in the Polar Seas, in the deserts of Asia,
in all the earth. Wherever in the uttermost parts of the globe, a Lynch
has penetrated, there has the Mysterious Cross been seen, and those who
have seen it have shuddered and said, “It is his mark, he has been here.”
You have heard of the Mysterious Avenger–look upon him, for before you
stands no less a person! But beware–breathe not a word to any soul.
Be silent, and wait. Some morning this town will flock aghast to view
a gory corpse; on its brow will be seen the awful sign, and men will tremble
and whisper, “He has been here–it is the Mysterious Avenger’s mark!”
You will come here, but I shall have vanished; you will see me no more.’
This ass had been reading the ‘Jibbenainosay,’ no doubt,
and had had his poor romantic head turned by it; but as I had
not yet seen the book then, I took his inventions for truth,
and did not suspect that he was a plagiarist.
However, we had a Lynch living in the town; and the more I
reflected upon his impending doom, the more I could not sleep.
It seemed my plain duty to save him, and a still plainer
and more important duty to get some sleep for myself,
so at last I ventured to go to Mr. Lynch and tell him
what was about to happen to him–under strict secrecy.
I advised him to ‘fly,’ and certainly expected him to do it.
But he laughed at me; and he did not stop there; he led me
down to the carpenter’s shop, gave the carpenter a jeering and
scornful lecture upon his silly pretensions, slapped his face,
made him get down on his knees and beg–then went off and
left me to contemplate the cheap and pitiful ruin of what,
in my eyes, had so lately been a majestic and incomparable hero.
The carpenter blustered, flourished his knife, and doomed this
Lynch in his usual volcanic style, the size of his fateful
words undiminished; but it was all wasted upon me; he was a hero
to me no longer, but only a poor, foolish, exposed humbug.
I was ashamed of him, and ashamed of myself; I took no further
interest in him, and never went to his shop any more. He was a
heavy loss to me, for he was the greatest hero I had ever known.
The fellow must have had some talent; for some of his imaginary
murders were so vividly and dramatically described that I remember all
their details yet.
The people of Hannibal are not more changed than is the town.
It is no longer a village; it is a city, with a mayor, and a council,
and water-works, and probably a debt. It has fifteen thousand people,
is a thriving and energetic place, and is paved like the rest