"She clings to me like a vice. I cannot—Give me a knife, Fogg. You will find one in my coat pocket—a knife—a knife!"
"Mercy! mercy! Have mercy upon me! No—no—no,—Help! Oh God! God!"
"The knife! The knife, I say!"
"Here, here," cried Fogg, as he hastily took it from Watson's pocket and opened it. "Here! Finish her, and quickly too, Watson!"
The scene that followed is too horrible for description. The hands of the wretched victim were hacked from their hold by Watson, and in the course of another minute, with one last appalling shriek, down she went like a flash of lightning to the bottom of the well.
"Gone!" said Watson.
Another shriek and Fogg, even, stopped his ears, so appalling was that cry, coming as it did so strangely from the bottom of the well.
"Throw something upon her," said Fogg. "Here's a brick—"
"Bah!" cried Watson, "bah! there's no occasion to throw anything on her. She'll soon get sick of such squealing."
Another shriek, mingled with a strange frothy cry, as though some one had managed to utter it under water, arose. The perspiration stood in large drops upon the face of Fogg.—He seized the brick he had spoken of, and cast it into the well. All was still as the grave before it reached the bottom, and then he wiped his face and looked at Watson.