During this very interesting conference, I was rallying all my energies for one desperate effort, intending, however, to wait for the uplifted knife, to grasp it, in order that I might turn the weapon against the breast of one assassin, and then use it as a defence against the other.
“Would to God,” said the villain, adding blasphemy to concerted murder—“would to God that my hand was spared this task! Give me the knife now. Where shall I strike him?—I have no strength to drive it into him far.”
“Tell ye, Mister, u’ll have nought to do with the murder—but u’d advise thee to bare his neck, and thrust in the point just under his right ear.”
“Hush! Will it bleed much?”
“Damnably!”
“Horrible!—horrible! Do you think the story about Cain and Abel is true?”
“As God is in heaven!”
“Can’t it be done without blood?”
“I’ll have nothing to do with the murder. But, Mister, if so be as you are so craven-hearted, take your small popper, and send a ball right into his heart. It is a gentleman’s death, and will make the prettiest small hole imaginable, and bleed none to signify. But, mind ye, this ’ere murder’s all your own.”
At this critical moment, as I was inhaling a strong breath, in order to invigorate my frame for instant exertion, I heard two or three voices in the distance carolling out, in a sort of disjointed chorus—