"Twelve years ago, twelve years ago," echoed the watching whisperer.
He gave a horrible frightened cry, something between a beast's whine and howl, dropped on his knees, clasped his hands, turned his terrified eyes upward, and broke into delirious prayer. His face streamed with sweat.
"Oh, God, God, visit not Thy servant thus. 'Twas all done for Thee, all for Thee, Thou knowest. The gold is all Thine. For Thy name's sake, Oh Lord, pity Thy faithful, humble servant. He, Lord, was a sinner, it was meet that he should go, and that one of Thine own people should hold his wealth. He was spending all in sin; it was one's duty, Lord, one's duty. It was Thou who guidedst one's hand that night, and was he not dying already from the illness with which Thou hadst stricken him? For Thy sake, oh Lord, it was done. Thou knowest it. Not the meanest penny has been spent on worldly pleasures nor evil ways nor self, as he, oh Lord, would have spent it. Thou knowest, Thou knowest; the meetings, the missionaries, the work in Thy vineyard amongst Thy people; all that has been spent has been spent in Thy service, and when Thou callest me to Thee, all will be left for Thy work on earth below. All, oh Lord, all. Thou knowest, Thou knowest. Grant then that he trouble me not thus, grant—"
"Twelve years ago, twelve years ago," I whispered, more boldly, tasting dear revenge, anxious to see to what length of terror and blasphemy this snivelling Thing could go.
I overshot my mark; I whispered a little too loud. He looked quickly up to the hole in the wall, and though I shrank back like a flash, for a fraction of a second our eyes met.
Then he rushed for the door.
I dropped myself down and ran for dear life back across the beamed room to my attic. Feverishly I reviewed the position. He had quite certainly seen me and was now rushing to my attic to cut off my retreat. I sped across, sprang up to the aperture, squeezed my way wildly through, calculating all the while, as the quarry does, the number of seconds it will take the huntsman to finish him. He would have to fly down the stairs from his attic, along the landing, and up the stairs to mine. Thank God, he had to fetch the key, which I knew was kept somewhere downstairs. This delay saved me. I just had time to squeeze through, shut the little door, drop on to the chair, move the chair from beneath, fly to my mattress, and throw the cape around me, before I heard the key turning.
He came in stealthily and stood listening for a second near the door. Then he struck a match and lighted the candle he held in his hand. I dropped my eyelids so that I could just see him, and affected as far as I could a quiet and regular breathing. He looked first at me, then round the room, evidently baffled. If he had found my mattress empty, if I had not flown back on the wings of terror, he would have had the pleasure of trapping me like a rat in the dark roof-room, the relief of a natural explanation of the strange whisperings, and at last a genuine excuse for beating me sick. But here I was, sleeping peacefully. I could feel him looking at me with intense hate. He hated me almost as much for bringing him here on a fool's errand as if he had thought I was really guilty. He bent down and peered more closely at my face. Instinctively my hand was clasped against my heart.
The door opened and Aunt Martha came in, shivering slightly in her nightdress.
"You here, Simeon? I thought I heard the child cry out."