“Dead!” muttered the inhuman wretch, as he stood upon the spot late occupied by his victim, looking down over the cliff. “Dead he must be; unless a man can fall two hundred feet and still live; which isn’t likely. That clears the way, I take it; and unless I have the ill luck to meet some one coming up—a straggler—it’ll be all right. As sound ascends, I ought to hear them before they could see me. I shall keep my ears open.”
Saying which he commenced the descent of the second slope, proceeding in the same cautious way as before.
The path was but a ledge, which, after running fifty yards in a direct line, made an abrupt double back in the opposite direction, all the while obliquing downwards. Another similar zig-zag, with a like length of declivity traversed, and he found himself at the cliff’s base, among shadowy, thick standing trees. He remembered the place, and that before reaching it on their way up they had followed the trend of the cliff for more than a quarter of a mile. So, taking this for his guide, he kept on along the back track.
Not far, before seeing that which brought him to a stop. If he had entertained any doubt about the sentinel being dead, it would have been resolved now. There lay the man’s body among the loose rocks, not only lifeless, but shapeless. A break in the continuity of the timber let the moonlight through, giving the murderer a full view of him he had murdered.
The sentinel had fallen upon his back, and lay with his face upward, his crushed body doubled over a boulder; the blood was welling from his mouth and nostrils, and the open eyes glared ghastly in the white, weird light. It was a sight to inspire fear in the mind of an ordinary individual, even in that of a murderer. But it had no effect on this strange lusus of humanity, whose courage was equal to his cruelty. Instead of giving the body a wide berth, and scared-like stealing past, he walked boldly up to it, saying in apostrophe—
“So you’re there! Well, you need not blame me, but your luck. If I hadn’t pushed you over, you’d have shot me like a dog, or brained me with the butt of your gun. Aha! I was too much for you, Mr Monk or soldier, whichever you were, for you’re neither now.
“Just possible,” he continued, changing the form of his monologue, “he may have a purse; the which I’m sure to stand in need of before this time to-morrow. If without money, his weapons may be of use to me.”
With a nimbleness which bespoke him no novice at trying pockets, he soon touched the bottom of all those on the body, to find them empty.
“Bah!” he ejaculated, drawing back with a disappointed air, “I might have known there was nothing in them. Whatever cash they’ve had up there has been spent long ago, and their wine will soon be out too. His gun I don’t care for; besides, I see it’s broken;—yes, the stock snapped clean off. But this stiletto, it’s worth taking with me. Even if I shouldn’t need it as a weapon, it looks like a thing Mr Pawnbroker would appreciate.”
Snatching the dagger—a silver-hilted one—from the corpse of its ill-starred owner, he secreted it inside his tattered rag of a coat, and without delay proceeded on.