My limbs, however,
refused to move. I was paralysed. Nearer and nearer drew the sounds;
and I could at length distinguish, with a clearness that petrified my
very soul, the banging and clanging of sword scabbards, and the
panting and gasping of men, sore pressed in a wild and desperate race.
And then the meaning of it all came to me with hideous abruptness--it
was a case of pursued and pursuing--the race was for--LIFE. Outside my
door the fugitive halted, and from the noise he made in trying to draw
his breath, I knew he was dead beat. His antagonist, however, gave him
but scant time for recovery. Bounding at him with prodigious leaps, he
struck him a blow that sent him reeling with such tremendous force
against the door, that the panels, although composed of the stoutest
oak, quivered and strained like flimsy matchboard.
The blow was repeated; the cry that rose in the victim's throat was
converted into an abortive gurgling groan; and I heard the ponderous
battle-axe carve its way through helmet, bone, and brain. A moment
later came the sound of slithering armour; and the corpse, slipping
sideways, toppled to the ground with a sonorous clang.
A silence too awful for words now ensued. Having finished his hideous
handiwork, the murderer was quietly deliberating what to do next;
whilst my dread of attracting his attention was so great that I
scarcely dare breathe. This intolerable state of things had already
lasted for what seemed to me a lifetime, when, glancing involuntarily
at the floor, I saw a stream of dark-looking fluid lazily lapping its
way to me from the direction of the door.
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