Instinctively O'Donnell shot his left hand upward and seized the
descending wrist. But the force in Lavirotte's arm was too great to be
overcome. The blow was diverted; but the long, keen blade tipped the
shoulder, tore through the cloth of the coat, and buried itself in the
flesh, just above the shoulder-blade.
"Heavens and earth, man! What's the matter?" cried O'Donnell, rendered
almost powerless, more by astonishment than pain.
"Death!" cried the infuriated man--"your death!--that's what's the
matter." And, withdrawing the knife, lie raised his arm once more
aloft.
O'Donnell now plainly saw that he was indeed dealing with a madman,
or, at least, with a man who seriously intended taking his life.
Still retaining his hold on the right wrist, he seized Lavirotte by
the throat and shook him violently. The pain in his shoulder was
nothing. It was no more than if he had been touched by a piece of iron
just uncomfortably hot. Yet he felt confused and queer in his head, as
though he had received the blow on his head, rather than on his
shoulder.
Lavirotte now seized O'Donnell by the throat, and for a while, with
the two hands raised in the air--the one holding the knife, the other
the wrist of the hand that held it--the two men struggled fiercely.
It was a matter of life and death. O'Donnell had now lost all care for
the cause of the attack, and was simply engaged in a brute attempt to
defend his life against a brute attack. Both men were mad. Both men
had now lost everything but the instinct of victory. All the faculties
of each were concentrated upon the muscles each used--upon the
advantages each gained--upon the chances each afforded. Each now meant
to kill, and to kill speedily--to kill with all the force, all the
power, all the devices of his body.
One was armed and whole; the other was unarmed and hurt. Both were
sensible that this conflict could not last many minutes.
The two twisted and writhed and struggled abroad on the open way. Now
they swayed this way, now that. Now, as though one were about to fall;
now, as though the other. Now one strove to throw the other by the aid
of mere weight and muscle; now the other sought to win by the force of
strangulation. Meanwhile, above the heads of both rose the two
upstretched arms--one hand clasped around a wrist, one hand holding a
bloody knife.
The two men's faces were livid. They breathed only now and then, and
with terrible difficulty. Their eyes were dilated and protruding, the
nostrils wide set and quivering.
For some time, he knew not how long--he never knew how long the fight
lasted--O'Donnell had felt something warm trickling down his back. He
was bleeding freely. He was half suffocated. He felt he must succumb.
For an instant everything was dark. Suddenly he saw once more; his
vision, his senses were restored, but only to reveal to him the fact
that his powers were failing swiftly.
The two men rocked and swayed in the broad roadway leading towards the
cove. Neither knew nor cared which way he went, so long as he might
cling to the other. At the moment when O'Donnell's faculties returned,
after that instant's unconsciousness, the two men were struggling a
few feet from the rock behind which Lavirotte had hidden.
"Now," thought O'Donnell swiftly, "for one last effort; if I fail he
will kill me."
Suddenly relaxing his knees, he stooped so as to bring his head on a
level with the shoulder of his antagonist; then, loosing his hold of
Lavirotte's throat, he seized him by the ankle, and, putting all his
strength into his right arm and back, he sought to lift and throw the
other. But his strength was gone; his head was dizzy; his eyes grew
dim. Finally, all was dark once more. He lurched heavily forward,
striking his antagonist in the chest with his head.
Lavirotte stumbled and fell backwards. O'Donnell struggled for a
moment to regain his upright position, but his strength was spent; he
was unconscious, and subsided in the middle of the road.
Now was Lavirotte's opportunity. O'Donnell could not have resisted a
child. The most cowardly cut-throat that ever lifted steel need have
no fear of him.
The darkness increased as the night went on. By this time it had grown
so great that it was impossible to see an arm's length. The sky, for
all the light it gave, might as well have been the solid earth. No
sound stirred the profound silence save the mellow washing of the
waves upon the shore. It was sultry and suffocating. Now and then the
air panted, beating this way and that in little hot gusts that brought
no freshness and left no coolness behind. Although the murmuring of
the sea filled the night with a low plaintive music, the silence
seemed to deepen as the minutes went by.
At length a form began to stir. For a while the man did not seem to
know where he was, or the circumstances which had led to his
condition. It was only by feeling around him he was able to know he
was in the open air. He felt the road, the stones, the sunbaked clay
of the road. Then he listened intently awhile, and by his hearing
confirmed the notion that he was in the open air. That was the murmur
of the sea. These little puffs of wind that beat against his face
showed he was not between walls.
Ah! Now something of it came back. There had been a struggle of some
kind, a fight with someone. What was it exactly? This was the road to
the cove. Of course it was. The sea lay beyond there somewhere. To the
right, to the left, no matter where, the sea was somewhere near. It
would be good to get down to the sea and lie down in its cool waters,
for he was aching and burning. What a fearful thirst! His tongue was
parched, baked dry as the baked clay on which he sat. He had been
hurt, how or why he could not recollect. There had been a fight. That
was all right. But why he had fought or with whom, these were the
mysteries.
Oh! why did they not bring him some water? He was dying of thirst, and
no one would come. He didn't remember going to bed. He never felt so
sleepy in all his life before. It was a kind of deathly sleep, a sleep
with no mercy in it, a sleep that promised no ease, no repose, no
alleviation of the torturing uncertainties. Such a bed, too; it was as
hard as iron. What did they mean by giving so sleepy a man such a bed?
What nonsense it was for his mother to sing a lullaby. He was a grown
man, and needed no such inducement to sleep. Oh, this terrible,
tyrannical sleep that brought no ease, no repose.
How strange that the cathedral organ should be booming away in the
dark! If service was going on, why not have lights?
Lights! Was it magic? No sooner did he think of them than the whole
cathedral blazed out for one brief moment, and then fell back into
darkness again. It was marvellous, incredible; and the cathedral
seemed so vast, vaster than the reason could believe, although the eye
had seen it. And, then, there was the music once again. Why did the
organist play only when the lights were out? That was the swell organ.
It was the loudest organ he had ever heard. What seemed most
incredible of all was the organ was big enough to fill the church, and
did fill it, until it made the windows, the pillars, ay, the very
ground itself tremble.
Ground! Ay, surely it was the ground. How extraordinary that he should
be lying on the ground!
What was this so delicious and cool? Cool and refreshing after that
horrible dream of fighting with someone, and then waking on a road.
And yet there was something in that dream, for this was a road.
He sat up.
It was very extraordinary. It was the most extraordinary thing that
had ever happened to him in his life. Was he alive, in the old
familiar sense of that word? Of course he was, for this was a road,
and he knew it was a road, and----
Lightning--thunder--rain.
What was that he had seen beside him? The rain was refreshing. It was
cooling his head, collecting his thoughts.
What was that he had seen beside him?
More lightning--thunder--rain.
What was that beside him?
Lavirotte--dead.