Then I heard the enemy coming back to the front, slowly, and with heavy footfalls. They paused for a moment at the front door, seemed to set something down, and then retreated quickly. After an interval of about three minutes, they returned in the same way; stopped at the same place; and hurried off as before. This they did several times in succession. Listening with suspended breath and my ear against the keyhole, I distinctly heard them deposit some kind of burden each time—evidently a weighty burden, from the way in which they carried it; and yet, strange to say, one that, despite its weight, made scarcely any noise in the setting down.
Just at this moment, when all my senses were concentrated in the one act of listening, Bergheim stirred for the first time, and began muttering.
"The man!" he said, in a low, suppressed tone. "The man under the hearth!"
I flew to him at the first sound of his voice. He was recovering. Heaven be thanked, he was recovering! In a few minutes we should be two—two against two—right and might on our side—both ready for the defence of our lives!
"One man under the hearth," he went on, in the same unnatural tone. "Four men at the bottom of the pond—all murdered—foully murdered!"
I had scarcely heeded his first words; but now, as their sense broke upon me, that great rush of exultation and thankfulness was suddenly arrested. My heart stood still; I trembled; I turned cold with horror.
Then the veins swelled on his forehead; his face became purple; and he struck out blindly, as one oppressed with some horrible nightmare.
"Blood!" he gasped. "Everywhere blood—don't touch it. God's vengeance—help!"...
And so, struggling violently in my arms, he opened his eyes, stared wildly round, and made an effort to get upon his feet.
"What is the matter?" he said, sinking back again, and trembling from head to foot. "Was I asleep?"