"There was a noted leader among the rebel Buenos-Ayreans, whom the
government wanted much to get hold of. He was a fine, dashing,
handsome fellow; I had often seen him, but we never came to close
quarters. One night, I was lying wrapped up in my poncho at the
bottom of my boat, which was rocking in the surf, waiting for two of
my men, who were gone on shore. There came to the shore, this man
and one of his people, and they stood so near the boat, that I could
distinctly hear their conversation. I suppose it was the devil who
tempted me to put a bullet through the man's heart. He was an enemy
to the flag under which I fought, but he was no enemy to me - I had
no right to become his executioner; but still the desire to kill
him, for the mere devilry of the thing, came so strongly upon me
that I no longer tried to resist it. I rose slowly upon my knees;
the moon was shining very bright at the time, both he and his
companion were too earnestly engaged to see me, and I deliberately
shot him through the body. He fell with a heavy groan back into the
water; but I caught the last look he threw upon the moonlight skies
before his eyes glazed in death. Oh, that look! - so full of despair,
of unutterable anguish; it haunts me yet - it will haunt me for ever.
I would not have cared if I had killed him in strife - but in cold
blood, and he so unsuspicious of his doom! Yes, it was murder; I
know by this constant tugging at my heart that it was murder. What
do you say to it?"
"I should think as you do, Mr. Malcolm. It is a terrible thing to
take away the life of a fellow-creature without the least
provocation."
"Ah! I know you would blame me; but he was an enemy after all;
I had a right to kill him; I was hired by the government under
whom I served to kill him; and who shall condemn me?"
"No one more than your own heart."
"It is not the heart, but the brain, that must decide in questions
of right and wrong," said he. "I acted from impulse, and shot that
man; had I reasoned upon it for five minutes, the man would be
living now. But what's done cannot be undone. Did I ever show you
the work I wrote upon South America?"
"Are you an author," said I, incredulously.
"To be sure I am. Murray offered me 100 pounds for my manuscript,
but I would not take it.
