Chapter Seven.
Murder without remorse.
The breathless silence, succeeding Darke’s profane speech, is awe-inspiring; death-like, as though every living creature in the forest had been suddenly struck dumb, or dead, too.
Unspeakably, incredibly atrocious is the behaviour of the man who has remained master of the ground. During the contest, Dick Darke has shown the cunning of the fox, combined with the fiercer treachery of the tiger; victorious, his conduct seems a combination of the jackal and vulture.
Stooping over his fallen foe, to assure himself that the latter no longer lives, he says,—
“Dead, I take it.”
These are his cool words; after which, as though still in doubt, he bends lower, and listens. At the same time he clutches the handle of his hunting knife, as with the intent to plunge its blade into the body.
He sees there is no need. It is breathless, almost bloodless—clearly a corpse!
Believing it so, he resumes his erect attitude, exclaiming in louder tone, and with like profanity as before,—
“Yes, dead, damn him!”