Over
some natures, and not infrequently to those which seem outwardly the
coarsest, superstition wields a power the normal mind can scarcely
comprehend. Murphy might be spiritually as cringing a coward as he was
physically a fearless desperado. Hampton had known such cases before;
he had seen men laugh scornfully before the muzzle of a levelled gun,
and yet tremble when pointed at by the finger of accusation. He had
lived sufficiently long on the frontier to know that men may become
inured to that special form of danger to which they have grown
accustomed through repetition, and yet fail to front the unknown and
mysterious. Perhaps here might be discovered Murphy's weak point.
Without doubt the man was guilty of crime; that its memory continued to
haunt him was rendered evident by his hiding in Glencaid, and by his
desperate attempt to kill Hampton. That knife-thrust must have been
given with the hope of thus stopping further investigation; it alone
was sufficient proof that Murphy's soul was haunted by fear.
"Conscience doth make cowards of us all." These familiar words floated
in Hampton's memory, seeming to attune themselves to the steady gallop
of his horse.
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