“Saved your life and mine, Jasper Losely,” said Darrell, solemnly, and catching the arm that was raised against him. “We are now upon equal terms.”
“I understand,” growled the tiger, as the slaver gathered to his lips—“you think by that paper to summon some one to your aid.”
“Not so—that paper is useless while I live. Look forth—the moonlight is on the roofs below—can you see where that paper has fallen? On the ledge of a parapet that your foot could not reach. It faces the window of a room in which one of my household sleeps; it will meet his eye in the morning when the shutters are unbarred; and on that paper are writ these words: ‘If I am this night murdered, the murderer is Jasper Losely,’ and the paper is signed by my name. Back, sir—would you doom yourself to the gibbet?”
Darrell released the dread arm he had arrested, and Losely stared at him, amazed, bewildered.
Darrell resumed: “And now I tell you plainly that I can accede to no terms put to me thus. I can sign my hand to no order that you may dictate, because that would be to sign myself a coward—and my name is Darrell!”
“Down on your knees, proud man—sign you shall, and on your knees! I care not now for gold—I care not now a rush for my life. I came here to humble the man who from first to last has so scornfully humbled me.—And I will, I will! On your knees—on your knees!”
The robber flung himself forward; but Darrell, whose eye had never quitted the foe, was prepared for and eluded the rush. Losely, missing his object, lost his balance, struck against the edge of the table which partially interposed between himself and his prey, and was only saved from falling by the close neighbourhood of the wall, on which he came with a shock that for the moment well-nigh stunned him. Meanwhile Darrell had gained the hearth, and snatched from it a large log half-burning. Jasper, recovering himself, dashed the long matted hair from his eyes, and, seeing undismayed the formidable weapon with which he was menaced, cowered for a second and deadlier spring.
“Stay, stay, stay, parricide and madman!” cried Darrell, his eye flashing brighter than the brand. “It is not my life I plead for—it is yours. Remember, if I fall by your hand, no hope and no refuge are left to you! In the name of my dead child, and under the eye of avenging Heaven, I strike down the fury that blinds you, and I scare back your soul from the abyss!”
So ineffably grand were the man’s look and gesture—so full of sonorous terror the swell of his matchless all-conquering voice, that Losely, in his midmost rage, stood awed and spellbound. His breast heaved, his eye fell, his frame collapsed, even his very tongue seemed to cleave to the parched roof of his mouth. Whether the effect so suddenly produced might have continued, or whether the startled miscreant might not have lashed himself into renewed wrath and inexpiable crime, passes out of conjecture. At that instant simultaneously were heard hurried footsteps in the corridor without, violent blows on the door, and voices exclaiming, “Open, open!—Darrell, Darrell!”—while the bell at the portals of the old house rang fast and shrill.
“Ho—is it so?” growled Losely, recovering himself at those unwelcome sounds. “But do not think that I will be caught thus, like a rat in a trap. No—I will—”