Neither of them spoke after they reached the street-door of Gray’s house, until they had placed several streets between them and the one in which the awful deed was committed.
There was a dogged, apathetic kind of movement and manner about Britton, as with a heavy tread he slowly walked by the side of the squire, which more resembled the gross serenity of some over-gorged reptile than anything else. Never before had the smith’s appetite for destruction been so thoroughly sated—never before had he accomplished a darling wish of his heart so fully and so completely. His hatred of Jacob Gray had been one of his chief passions for years, and he had always pleased himself with the notion of some day having a revenge which should be in accordance with his savage nature, and full of terror. Yet in his wildest dreams—in his most fanciful imaginings of what he would like to do to Jacob Gray, he had fallen short of the scene of horror and blood he had that night gone through. Yes; Andrew Britton was satisfied—quite satisfied, as regarded Jacob Gray, and he felt all the ennui and satiety which was sure to arise, when the great object which he had always pleased himself he should one day be able to accomplish, was done. Jacob Gray was dead. He had died by his (Britton’s) hands an awful death, such as rejoiced him to inflict, and which was only disagreeable because it was done, and could not be repeated.
Now and then he would cast a scowling glance upon the squire, as if he longed to strike him down with the cleaver he still held in his grasp. He felt like a man, the great object of whose existence has slipped away from him, leaving the mind no fixed point upon which to fall back in thought.
“Curses on him!” he muttered. “He’s dead,” and Britton felt himself almost injured that Gray could not be brought to life again in order to give him again the pleasure of dashing Bond’s cleaver into his quivering brain.
But what were these thoughts of the coarse-minded, brutal animal, Britton, in comparison with the whirl-wind of frightful feelings that made a hell in the seething brain of Learmont. If he looked up to the sky, huge gouts of blood seemed to intercept his view of the blue vault of heaven; if he cast his eyes downwards, he could not divest himself of the idea that he was treading in ensanguined pools of human gore. He ground his teeth together till he produced a resemblance of the crashing sound which the cleaver wielded by Britton had made as it came in contact with the crunched bones of Gray’s skull. His last despairing cry of “Mercy—mercy—mercy!” was still ringing in his ears, and, finally, such was the intense excitement of his feelings, that he was compelled to lean upon the arm of Britton as he gasped,—
“I—I—shall go mad—I shall go mad. Andrew Britton, get me some water to cool my brain. I shall go mad!”
“Water be d—d!” growled Britton; “have some brandy, why, what’s the matter now?”
“Do—do you not hear, Britton? Gray is still screaming for mercy—does not the sound rush like burning lava through your brain—hark—hark—he still shrieks mercy—mercy—mercy.”
Learmont held the smith by the arm as he spoke, and trembled so especially that he shook the bulky form of Britton to and fro.
“Why what’s come over you, squire?” cried Britton, “curse you—you are not going to make a die of it now, just as that canting thief Gray is put out of the world.”