To try to persuade him then to part
From all that was left to him here,—her grave;
So I stayed by his side that night, and, save
One heart-cutting cry, he uttered no sound,—
God! that wail— like the wail of a hound!

'Tis six long years since I heard that cry,
But 'twill ring in my ears till the day I die.
Since that fearful night no one has heard
Poor David Sloane utter sound or word.
You have seen to-day how he always goes:
He's been given that suit of convict's clothes
By some prison officer. On his back
You noticed a load like a peddler's pack?
Well, that's what he lives for: when reason went,
Still memory lived, for his days are spent
In searching for Dukites; and year by year
That bundle of skins is growing. 'Tis clear
That the Lord out of evil some good still takes;
For he's clearing this bush of the Dukite snakes.

" T'LL have it, I tell you! Curse you!—there!"⁠
The long knife glittered, was sheathed, and was bare.
The sawyer staggered and tripped and fell.
And falling he uttered a frightened yell:
His face to the sky, he shuddered and gasped.
And tried to put from him the man he had grasped
A moment before in the terrible strife.
"I'll have it, I tell you, or have your life!