A PRAYER TO HEAVEN.
The game had passed out of her hands. Should she trust to the blood-thirsty brute, or to the blood-thirsty man?
I think she would have thrown herself upon such mercy as the hound would show her, rather than trust to Roland Mortlake. But the time had passed even while she stood in sore doubt.
That mysterious tremor of the shutter had ceased, and now, in the ominous stillness, she saw—oh horror! what was that?
A small circular hole had been cut in the panel, and through it she caught the glitter of a human eye watching her.
The blood curdled in her veins, her hands fell, clasped, before her, she stood, with her head bent forward, and dilated eyes returning that awful stare.
No horror, caused by death in any form, could have equaled that caused by the mere stealthy glare of a human eye watching her, gleaming upon her, unaccompanied by the visible face.
Suddenly the eye was removed, a sharp click broke the supreme silence, a long, slender tube was thrust half-length through the aperture, and pointed with deliberate aim at her heart.
A blind haze came between her and the hideous vision. Quicker than thought she darted to one side, and sank to the floor, almost insensible.
Her sight cleared, and she looked for the pointed pistol.