but it is no matter–it does not always bring help.
When you and your cousin murdered a helpless woman and child
in a cabin in Arkansas–my wife, it was, and my child!–
they shrieked for help, you remember; but it did no good;
you remember that it did no good, is it not so? Your teeth chatter–
then why cannot you shout? Loosen the bandages with your hands–
then you can. Ah, I see–your hands are tied, they cannot aid you.
How strangely things repeat themselves, after long years;
for MY hands were tied, that night, you remember? Yes, tied much
as yours are now–how odd that is. I could not pull free.
It did not occur to you to untie me; it does not occur
to me to untie you. Sh—-! there’s a late footstep.
It is coming this way. Hark, how near it is! One can count
the footfalls–one–two–three. There–it is just outside.
Now is the time! Shout, man, shout!–it is the one sole chance
between you and eternity! Ah, you see you have delayed too long–
it is gone by. There–it is dying out. It is gone! Think of it–
reflect upon it–you have heard a human footstep for the last time.
How curious it must be, to listen to so common a sound as that,
and know that one will never hear the fellow to it again.’
Oh, my friend, the agony in that shrouded face was ecstasy to see!
I thought of a new torture, and applied it–assisting myself with a trifle
of lying invention–
‘That poor Kruger tried to save my wife and child, and I
did him a grateful good turn for it when the time came.
I persuaded him to rob you; and I and a woman helped him to desert,
and got him away in safety.’ A look as of surprise and triumph
shone out dimly through the anguish in my victim’s face.
I was disturbed, disquieted. I said–
‘What, then–didn’t he escape?’
A negative shake of the head.
‘No? What happened, then?’
The satisfaction in the shrouded face was still plainer.
The man tried to mumble out some words–could not succeed;
tried to express something with his obstructed hands–failed;
paused a moment, then feebly tilted his head, in a meaning way,
toward the corpse that lay nearest him.
‘Dead?’ I asked. ‘Failed to escape?–caught in the act and shot?’
Negative shake of the head.
‘How, then?’
Again the man tried to do something with his hands. I watched closely,
but could not guess the intent. I bent over and watched still more intently.
He had twisted a thumb around and was weakly punching at his breast with it.
‘Ah–stabbed, do you mean?’
Affirmative nod, accompanied by a spectral smile of such
peculiar devilishness, that it struck an awakening light
through my dull brain, and I cried–
‘Did I stab him, mistaking him for you?–for that stroke was meant
for none but you.’
The affirmative nod of the re-dying rascal was as joyous as his failing
strength was able to put into its expression.
‘O, miserable, miserable me, to slaughter the pitying soul that,
stood a friend to my darlings when they were helpless, and would
have saved them if he could! miserable, oh, miserable, miserable me!’
I fancied I heard the muffled gurgle of a, mocking laugh.
I took my face out of my hands, and saw my enemy sinking back upon
his inclined board.
He was a satisfactory long time dying. He had a wonderful vitality,
an astonishing constitution. Yes, he was a pleasant long time at it.
I got a chair and a newspaper, and sat down by him and read.
Occasionally I took a sip of brandy. This was necessary,
on account of the cold. But I did it partly because I saw,
that along at first, whenever I reached for the bottle,
he thought I was going to give him some. I read aloud:
mainly imaginary accounts of people snatched from the grave’s
threshold and restored to life and vigor by a few spoonsful
of liquor and a warm bath. Yes, he had a long, hard death of it–
three hours and six minutes, from the time he rang his bell.