Then he raised his head slightly to try and look round for help, but he could see nothing but the setting sun, now glorifying the whole scene of peace made horrible by the life-and-death struggle that was going on. He thought of the past, of his wife, and as a strange singing arose in his ears, it seemed to take the form of words imploring for mercy—the mercy that he would not show.
“I can’t die—I am not fit to die!” he gasped. “John Huish, have mercy on me!”
He shuddered as his adversary burst into a wild, hoarse laugh, and glared down at him; and truly his face was horrible, distorted as it was by passion, his brow smeared with blood from the wound in his head, and every vein knotted and standing out from his exertions.
“He is mad!” the man muttered, as he saw the wild look in the other’s eyes, and once more he shrieked aloud. “No, no! do not kill me!” he cried; “I cannot die!”
“Not die!” cried Huish. “We shall see!”
He tightened his hands now fiercely, when, with almost superhuman strength, the hunted man made a dying effort to wrench away his neck, shrieking out: “Huish—John Huish—mercy—do not kill—I am—your brother!”
John Huish’s hands relaxed their grasp, and a strange pang of fear and wonder combined struck through his brain. This man—his very self in appearance—his double—who knew his every act, his very life, and who had impersonated him again and again—was it possible?
He stared down at the distorted countenance before him, his hands clawed and held a few inches from the prostrate man’s throat, while doubt and incredulity struggled for the mastery. Then a curious smile crossed his face as his former thought re-mastered his beclouded brain.
“Another wile—a trick—a lie, for a few more moments’ breath,” he cried, catching him by the throat once more. “It is a lie, and you are a devil!”
“Mercy, help!” shrieked the other once more. “Huish—John—would you kill your brother?”