“It is you who have stolen the honors due me; it is you who would prevent
me from becoming famous; it is you, curse you, who will marry the only
woman I can ever love—and then you ask me to let you live! No, damn you!”
He then took from a drawer nearby a large and peculiarly-shaped
dissecting knife which I had often seen him use, and, with the
deliberation of the insane, he proceeded to sharpen it on a steel,
testing it from time to time with his thumb.
In my overpowering fear for the safety of my physical self, I know not
all that I did, but I do know that it was all in vain. How I longed for
the power of speech! And what would I not have given for the use of my
own strong body with which to cope with him!
But I was utterly in his power and at his mercy, and the sickening
thought came to me that I, the spirit, must stand passive by his side and
see my body, still living, hacked and mutilated by the knife he held. I
called for help, but knew there was no sound, and in despair I waited.
I heard the madman that was once my friend mutter: “That will do,” and,
with the gleaming blade in his hand, he started across the room, and I
knew that the awful moment was at hand.
I attempted to grapple with him, but my hands felt nothing. Another step
and he would be at the bench and it would all be over. Instinctively,
I threw myself between the madman and my body, with my arms stretched
forth as if to keep him away. How it was accomplished I cannot tell, but
by the look of mortal terror that came in the face before me, such as I
have never since seen drawn in any countenance, I knew that I had _become
visible_ and that he saw me!
I can imagine the picture at this moment—the spirit guarding the
helpless counterpart of itself—and indeed it must have been a tableau
to have struck fear to the stoutest heart. My friend’s eyes dilated with
horror; the knife dropped from his hand.
One moment thus he stood. Then his lips parted, and I knew that he had
uttered a shriek. He then fell at my feet, blood flowing from his mouth
and nostrils, his eyes rolling in terror.
I remained chained to the spot by the fear that he would recover from his
fit and carry out his fiendish intention.
At length the same feeling of dizziness, which I had before experienced,
returned to me, and almost before I could realize what was taking place
I found myself sitting upright on the bench, body and soul again united,
and the form of Sayres at my feet, to convince me that all was not a
hideous dream.
I placed my poor friend on the bench, and finally I succeeded in bringing
him back to consciousness, but in a very weak condition.
He passed through a very severe illness, but never regained his sanity.
He remained hopelessly insane.
Of this awful story I have related he never recollected any part. I was
unable to find any of the wonderful drug in his laboratory, and am as
ignorant of its composition now as I was on that terrible night. I have
been silent on the matter, hoping that some day Sayres would again regain
his reason, but now that he is dead I have been impelled to write this
narrative.