“Kill him—kill him,” gasped Learmont. “Keep him not in agony!”
The cleaver descended again, a heavy fall succeeded, and then all was still. Something cold fell on the back of Learmont’s hand. A glance told him it was blood; but before he could utter the cry of horror that rose upon his lips, a tremendous knocking at the street-door awakened every echo in the house.
CHAPTER CV.
After the Murder.
The knocking continued without intermission for several seconds, and each blow seemed to Learmont as if it was struck upon his own heart.
“Britton, Britton,” he cried, “you hear. There is some alarm. Hasten, hasten, or we are lost.”
Britton turned his excited face towards the squire, and the dim light of the candle fell upon it, Learmont could not but be struck by its awful expression. The smith had at length succeeded in gratifying the long cherished desire of his heart, namely, to be in some dreadful manner revenged upon Jacob Gray. Wild excitement had caused him to do the deed which he had just committed, and every evil passion of his nature was peeping forth like a bold fiend from his countenance. Crimson spots of human gore were likewise upon his face—horrible evidences of the work he had been about.
“Who knocks?” he said in a low, earnest voice. “Who is mad enough to interfere with me?”
He raised in his hand the cleaver as he spoke—with a dull heavy splash there fell from its blade on to the floor “gouts of blood,” and Learmont turned away his head, sickened at the sight.
“Who dares, I say, to interfere with me?” repeated Britton. “Squire, Jacob Gray won’t trouble you any more.”