A low, strangled gurgle finished the sentence; for, with the bound of a pythoness, she had sprung forward and grasped him by the throat. She had the strength of a giant. He was a weak, broken-down old man, as powerless in her strong, horny fingers as an infant.
He grew black in the face, his eyeballs projected, and he struggled, blindly and helplessly, to extricate himself. She laughed a low, jeering laugh at his ineffectual efforts, and said, insultingly, as she released him:
“Softly, softly, lord earl! such violent straining of your lungs is not good for your constitution. You are quite helpless in my hands, you perceive; and if you attempt to raise your voice in that unpleasant manner again, I shall be forced to give you a still more loving clutch next time. Your best policy is, to keep as quiet as possible just now.”
He ground his teeth in impotent fury, as he gasped for breath.
“Besides, you take things for granted too easily, my lord. What proof have you that I am a murderess? You are, and in the sight of God; but that is not saying I am!”
“Oh, woman! guilty, blood-stained fiendess! your own words confirm it!” he passionately cried out.
“Gently, my lord, gently! Have you heard me say I murdered her?”
“You did not deny it.”
“That is negative proof, very unsubstantial, as you evidently know, although you found it sufficient to condemn my son!”
“You are too much of a demon to spare her innocent life one moment when in your power. Oh, I know—I know she is dead! Dear little angel! Sweet, helpless little Erminie!”