Читать книгу Buffalo Bill's Best Bet; Or, A Sure Thing Well Won онлайн

67 страница из 82

“Have you told me all the truth, Kenton Kingsland?” she asked in a low, stern tone.

As if determined to hide no atom of his guilt, he continued:

“No, Kate, not all; for, possessing, as you know, a strange power of imitation, I wrote a note, copying your hand, and saying that you were tired of living and had ended your own life.”

“I have that note with me, sir.”

“That caused people to believe you had committed suicide; more I cannot tell you, Kate.”

“But I can, sir; I was believed dead, dressed in my shroud, and buried, aye, placed in my grave, Kenton Kingsland, and left to my last sleep among the dead.

“But avaricious eyes had seen that my diamond rings were left on my fingers, and that night ghouls of the grave came to rob me. When they broke open the casket, the effects of the drug had worn off, the fresh air revived me, and I arose in my shroud and put to wild flight the base robbers of the dead. Can I forgive you that, Kenton Kingsland?”

“No, I do not ask it—yes, I do ask it, for you can forgive me if you love me as I do you; forgive, forget me, and I will go happy to my death.”