“Save your vitriol. I’m already damned,” he answered with consummate insolence.
John, blinking confusedly, straightened. The impulses of his late life still controlled him. With the flash of a puma’s instinct, he leaped upon the First of Fiends.
CHAPTER XXVIII
Wrath had burned the bonds of John Cabot’s hard-learned constraint. A fury of resentment over the subjection of Dolores controlled him. Supernatural might to avenge and save her seemed to come to him. Yet sudden as was his leap, strong its impetus, that which was material of his adversary had side-stepped neatly as though he were some mortal boxer in a squared circle.
“Positively, you annoy me,” commented Satan from the far end of the dais.
“You demon dog, your spite is nothing to my righteous rage!”
Again John rushed the blasphemer with head lowered between his shoulders; seized and attempted to bear him down. But face forward he collapsed upon the steps. His will to kill was conquered by its own futility. Nothing—quite nothing was in his grasp. A chuckle caused his glance to lift. Nearby stood the Tormentor as though untouched. An opaque aura surrounded him. Thick fumes spread with his breath.
Cabot staggered to his feet. All too soon the realization which Dolores had implored was being taught him. What matter how righteous the cause—how violent his will for avengement? This was Too-Late Land.
Satan clapped his hands; commanded the guard.
“Seize the fool. Throw him into the Den of the Demented. Get him into shape for particular torment. Out with him!”