“But you are mad! Can I help the law?”
“Can I respect it? Let us be logical. You are the eldest son above ground, in the daylight, by right of the law. I am the eldest son down in the earth, from which I took my birthright. And so here, down in the earth, I take my revenge on the law and on you!”
With a spring he leapt over the iron grate, in which the fire now burnt with a steady red glow. Seizing Lord St. Austell by the throat before the earl had the least intimation of his purpose, Goodhare, with a growling noise like a wild beast, twisted him and flung him down on to the red-hot coals. Before his victim had time for more than one struggle, one shout for help, Amos had torn open his waistcoat, and plunging a large claspknife between his ribs, stabbed him to the heart.
With a sigh of fiendish satisfaction, he threw the body, the clothes of which were in a blaze, on to the floor, and wrapping it tightly in the matting, extinguished the flames. Then, unbolting the door, he dragged the ghastly burden across the rough floor, and lifting it, not without difficulty and with an exclamation of disgust, into the upper cellar, he rolled it into a corner with a series of sharp kicks. Striking a match, he cast one more look, full of a thirsty, savage delight, at the staring eyes and mouth distended with horror; then, turning lightly on his heel, he threw away the match, and taking a bottle carefully from a rough wine-bin which stood in one corner, he climbed down into the inner cellar, took a corkscrew from his pocket, opened the bottle lovingly, and, pouring himself out a tumblerful, drank it off with great enjoyment.
CHAPTER XXII.
Meanwhile, Deborah had suffered much more from gloomy anticipations than the unfortunate Lord St. Austell. She opened the window wide, in spite of the rain and the cold, and putting her head out, listened and watched eagerly for his return.
Half an hour had passed, and her anxiety had reached fever pitch, when the door of the room was opened very slowly. Catching sight of a woman’s figure in the gloom, the intruder tried to retreat. But Deborah, who was no fussy young woman, and who was getting tired of mysteries, rushed to the door and kept it shut.
“I know who you are,” she cried. “You’re Sep Jocelyn. And you shall not go until you have told me everything I want to know.”
Sep, in a trembling voice, was trying to silence her throughout the whole of this speech.
“Sh-sh,” he whispered as she finished. “Do you want to get me into trouble, perhaps have me murdered! Where’s”—and his voice sank still lower—“where’s Goodhare?”