“What have we here?
A carrion death!”
_Merchant of Venice_, Act ii. Sc. 7.
IT was about this time that the stranger deemed it advisable to commence
his retreat. The slight and suppressed sound of voices, which at first
he had heard above in the conversation of the father and child, had died
away. The stillness at once encouraged and warned him. He stole to the
front door, softly undid the bolt, and found the door locked, and the
key missing. He had not observed that during his repast, and ere
his suspicions had been aroused, his host, in replacing the bar, and
relocking the entrance, had abstracted the key. His fears were now
confirmed. His next thought was the window--the shutter only protected
it half-way, and was easily removed; but the aperture of the lattice,
which only opened in part like most cottage casements, was far too small
to admit his person. His only means of escape was in breaking the whole
window; a matter not to be effected without noise and consequent risk.
He paused in despair. He was naturally of a strong-nerved and gallant
temperament, nor unaccustomed to those perils of life and limb which
German students delight to brave; but his heart well-nigh failed him at
that moment. The silence became distinct and burdensome to him, and a
chill moisture gathered to his brow. While he stood irresolute and in
suspense, striving to collect his thoughts, his ear, preternaturally
sharpened by fear, caught the faint muffled sound of creeping
footsteps--he heard the stairs creak. The sound broke the spell. The
previous vague apprehension gave way, when the danger became actually at
hand. His presence of mind returned at once. He went back quickly to the
fireplace, seized the poker, and began stirring the fire, and coughing
loud, and indicating as vigorously as possible that he was wide awake.
He felt that he was watched--he felt that he was in momently peril. He
felt that the appearance of slumber would be the signal for a mortal
conflict. Time passed, all remained silent; nearly half an hour had
elapsed since he had heard the steps upon the stairs. His situation
began to prey upon his nerves, it irritated them--it became intolerable.
It was not now fear that he experienced, it was the overwrought sense of
mortal enmity--the consciousness that a man may feel who knows that the
eye of a tiger is on him, and who, while in suspense he has regained
his courage, foresees that sooner or later the spring must come; the
suspense itself becomes an agony, and he desires to expedite the deadly
struggle he cannot shun.
Utterly incapable any longer to bear his own sensations, the traveller
rose at last, fixed his eyes upon the fatal door, and was about to
cry aloud to the listener to enter, when he heard a slight tap at
the window; it was twice repeated; and at the third time a low voice
pronounced the name of Darvil. It was clear, then, that accomplices had
arrived; it was no longer against one man that he would have to contend.
He drew his breath hard, and listened with throbbing ears. He heard
steps without upon the plashing soil; they retired--all was still.
He paused a few minutes, and walked deliberately and firmly to the inner
door, at which he fancied his host stationed; with a steady hand he
attempted to open the door; it was fastened on the opposite side. “So!”
said he, bitterly, and grinding his teeth, “I must die like a rat in a
cage. Well, I’ll die biting.”
He returned to his former post, drew himself up to his full height,
and stood grasping his homely weapon, prepared for the worst, and
not altogether unelated with a proud consciousness of his own natural
advantages of activity, stature, strength and daring. Minutes rolled on;
the silence was broken by some one at the inner door; he heard the bolt
gently withdrawn. He raised his weapon with both hands; and started to
find the intruder was only Alice. She came in with bare feet, and pale
as marble, her finger on her lips.
She approached--she touched him.
“They are in the shed behind,” she whispered, “looking for the
sledge-hammer--they mean to murder you; get you gone--quick.”
“How?--the door is locked.”
“Stay. I have taken the key from his room.”
She gained the door, applied the key--the door yielded. The traveller
threw his knapsack once more over his shoulder, and made but one stride
to the threshold. The girl stopped him. “Don’t say anything about it; he
is my father, they would hang him.”
“No, no. But you?--are safe, I trust?--depend on my gratitude.--I shall
be at ------ to-morrow--the best inn--seek me if you can. Which way
now?”
“Keep to the left.”
The stranger was already several paces distant; through the darkness,
and in the midst of the rain, he fled on with the speed of youth.
The girl lingered an instant, sighed, then laughed aloud; closed and
re-barred the door, and was creeping back, when from the inner entrance
advanced the grim father, and another man, of broad, short, sinewy
frame, his arms bare, and wielding a large hammer.
“How?” asked the host; “Alice here, and--hell and the devil! have you
let him go?”
“I told you that you should not harm him.”
With a violent oath the ruffian struck his daughter to the ground,
sprang over her body, unbarred the door, and, accompanied by his
comrade, set off in vague pursuit of his intended victim.