"And," went on Roderick St. Amande, as he drew near to my beloved one, who still lay as I had placed him, "who is this spruce and well-dressed gentleman who was to have been the husband of my Joice. Some Virginian dandy, I presume, who, not good enough for England, is yet a provincial magnate here. Ay, it must be so"--stooping down to gaze into my lord's face--"it must be so, for I have seen those very features when in a more boyish form. Possibly he is one of the young Pringles, or Byrds, or Clibornes, whom I knew five years ago. Is't not so, Joice, my beloved Joice, my future queen of squaws?"
That he should not recognise Gerald for his own cousin, for the man who held the rank he had once falsely said would some day be his, was the first moment of happiness I had known through this dreadful night, since the fact of his not so recognising him might, I thought, save my lover from instant death, if he were not dead already. For, if that villain could but guess who he really was, I did not doubt but that he would sheath his knife in the other's heart, all helpless as he lay. This being so, I answered:
"He is a gentleman and, I fear, is dead. Is that not enough for you?"
"Nay, too much. I would not have one Virginian dead; yet, I would not have one die so easily as he is dying now, for he is not at present dead. No, no; the dead are no good to us when we return from a successful attack such as this of Pomfret; it is the living we want; the quick not the dead. For see, my Joice, and you, too, my black but bonny Mary, the dead cannot feel! Their nerves and sinews have no longer the power of suffering, their flesh is cold, their tongues paralysed, so that they can neither shriek with pain nor cry for mercy--but, with the living, how different it is! They can feel all that is done upon them, they can feel limbs twisted off, and burnings, and loppings off of--of--of, why, say of ears," and here he grinned so demoniacally while he fingered the clusters of human ears that hung on his own breast, that all of white blood in the room shuddered but himself. "Yes, all these things they can feel. And, my sweethearts," he went on, gloatingly over our horror and his own foul and devilish picturings, "shall I tell you what the Indian tortures are, what you will see--when you sit by my side, my best beloved of wives--done upon these men here. On him," pointing to Mr. Kinchella, "and him," with his finger directed to my lord, "and this old blunderer," indicating O'Rourke, "and these scum and rakings of the London gutters?" sweeping his arm round so as to denominate all the convicts and bondsmen who had fought so well for us this night, though without avail. "Shall I tell you that? 'Twill be pretty hearing."