‘They’re coming down now. Look!’ Gladys cried, pointing. A dark bulk was moving slowly down the stairs, and another behind it, with a vague blur of face turned towards them. The one behind must be Saul. That hand sliding down the banisters was Saul’s. Now it had stopped; but Morgan was still moving, coming down alone.
‘Don’t do anything yet,’ Philip whispered. ‘Morgan may be all right now. We’ll see.’
Morgan reached the bottom, lurched forward a step or two, and then stood still, lowering at them. Such light as there was from the little lamp fell now on his face, which looked horrible—for it was all covered with blood. His hands too seemed to be reddened.
‘Cut himself with that glass,’ Philip whispered again.
‘What’s he going to do?’ This was from Penderel, though he was not looking at Morgan but at that hand which still rested on the banisters.
‘Get back.’ Sir William was motioning to Margaret and Gladys.
Miss Femm had been standing absolutely still, staring fixedly at Morgan. Now she shook her fist at him, and her voice went piercing through them all. ‘Morgan, you brute beast, go away. Hide yourself before God strikes you dead.’
The laugh they had heard before, empty and terrible, rang down from the dim stairs. ‘That’s Rebecca, sister Rebecca. Don’t listen to her, Morgan. She’s been talking to God for years now and He’s never heard her once. He thinks she’s a maggot, a fat little white maggot. He doesn’t know she’s got a soul. She’ll have to die and be born again before He’ll hear her. They’re all maggots—still creeping in the rotting old corpse they call life.’ Saul’s voice thickened with sudden fury. ‘Trample ’em, smash ’em—and then I’ll burn their filthy pulp—leave nothing but ashes—clean ashes—clean, clean, clean!’ After that it was a foul gabble. They had a moment’s vision of a white and blindly working face, pushed out over the banisters into the light, while the voice went gibbering on.
Then there was a little space of silence, during which nobody moved. But it seemed to them as if the ground beneath their feet was sinking, as if they were blackly descending through putrid air.
Now the madman on the stairs spoke again and his mood had suddenly changed; he seemed quietly merry. ‘No, Morgan, old flesh and bone, wait, wait for me.’ They saw the hand disappear. ‘Still something yet to do. Then we’ll finish it together.’ A stir in the shadows, a creak or two from the stairs, and he was gone.