The breathless silence, succeeding Darke's profane speech, is
awe-inspiring; death-like, as though every living creature in the forest
had been suddenly struck dumb, or dead, too.
Unspeakably, incredibly atrocious is the behaviour of the man who has
remained master of the ground. During the contest, Dick Darke has shown
the cunning of the fox, combined with the fiercer treachery of the
tiger; victorious, his conduct seems a combination of the jackal and
vulture.
Stooping over his fallen foe, to assure himself that the latter no
longer lives, he says,--
"Dead, I take it."
These are his cool words; after which, as though still in doubt, he
bends lower, and listens. At the same time he clutches the handle of
his hunting knife, as with the intent to plunge its blade into the body.
He sees there is no need. It is breathless, almost bloodless--clearly a
corpse!
Believing it so, he resumes his erect attitude, exclaiming in louder
tone, and with like profanity as before,--
"Yes, dead, damn him!"
As the assassin bends over the body of his fallen foe, he shows no sign
of contrition, for the cruel deed he has done. No feeling save that of
satisfied vengeance; no emotion that resembles remorse. On the
contrary, his cold animal eyes continue to sparkle with jealous hate;
while his hand has moved mechanically to the hilt of his knife, as
though he meant to mutilate the form he has laid lifeless. Its beauty,
even in death, seems to embitter his spirit!
But soon, a sense of danger comes creeping over him, and fear takes
shape in his soul. For, beyond doubt, he has done murder.
"No!" he says, in an effort at self-justification. "Nothing of the
sort. I've killed him; that's true; but he's had the chance to kill me.
They'll see that his gun's discharged; and here's his bullet gone
through the skirt of my coat. By thunder, 'twas a close shave!"
For a time he stands reflecting--his glance now turned towards the body,
now sent searchingly through the trees, as though in dread of some one
coming that way.
Not much likelihood of this. The spot is one of perfect solitude, as is
always a cypress forest. There is no path near, accustomed to be
trodden by the traveller. The planter has no business among those great
buttressed trunks. The woodman will never assail them with his axe.
Only a stalking hunter, or perhaps some runaway slave, is at all likely
to stray thither.