And since he had been discovered, that shot was, indeed, the most merciful end that could have been measured out to him.

The alternative might have been the gibbet and the gaping crowd, and a moral torture to precede the end.

Better--a thousand times better--as it was.
So much did all this weigh with him that when on the following Monday he accompanied the body to its grave, he found his erstwhile passionate grief succeeded by an odd thankfulness that things were as they were, although it must be confessed that a pang of returning anguish smote him when he heard the earth clattering down upon the wooden box that held all that remained of the man who had been father, mother, brother and all else to him.
He turned away at last, and was leaving the graveyard, when some one touched him on the arm.

It was a timid touch.

He turned sharply, and found himself looking into the sweet face of Hortensia Winthrop, wondering how came she there.