A fiendish expression swept over the young man's features. With one swift blow of his arm he dashed the weapon from Mr. Van der Beck's hand, and, seizing him in his iron grasp, he pushed him toward the precipice. There was a short struggle, during which the moon was once again obscured by a fleecy cloud. Twice a cry for help rang through the still night air; twice the two men, struggling frantically, almost rolled together over the brink. But at last, putting forth all his strength, Frederick actually lifted his adversary by the waist from the ground and with one mighty effort hurled him into the surging waters below. There was a crash of falling stones, an agonized cry, which was heard even above the roar of the cataract, and a splash.
FREDERICK HURLS MR. VAN DER BECK OVER THE FALLS.
Then all was silent again.
In the woods an owl hooted twice dismally, and a dog in the distance uttered that peculiar howl which is only heard when the Angel of Death passes through the air.
When the moon shone forth again Frederick might have been seen picking up the revolver which had belonged to Mr. Van der Beck from the ground. After hesitating for a minute he flung it into the river. Then, having arranged as best he could the disorder of his dress occasioned by the struggle, he turned on his heels and walked back slowly to the hotel, muttering to himself as he went:
“It was his own fault. What need had he to cross my path? However, it is best so. Dead men tell no tales.”
When Frederick re-entered the billiard-room at the hotel his friends noticed that he was very pale. He called for a glass of brandy, and when it was brought drained it at one gulp.
“My dear boy,” exclaimed one of the young Englishmen, “what the duse is the matter with you? Have you seen a ghost? How ill you look!”
“Oh, there is nothing much the matter with me,” replied Frederick. “I suppose I have caught a chill; it is fearfully damp about here.”