Vranic now struggled in vain; the candle, which had been blown out, had fallen from his fingers; he tried to speak, he gasped for breath, he was choking.
Radonic's grasp now was as that of an iron vice, and the more the false friend struggled to get free, the stronger he squeezed.
Vranic at last emitted a stifled, raucous, gurgling sound; then his arms lost their strength, and when, a moment afterwards, the furious husband relinquished his hold, his antagonist fell on the floor with a mighty thud.
The bells of the church were chiming in the distance.
Radonic, shivering, shuddering, stood stock-still in the darkness that surrounded him; he only heaved a noiseless sigh—the deep breath of a man who has accomplished an arduous task.
Vranic did not get up; he did not move. Was he dead?
"Dead!" whispered Radonic to himself.
Just then the body, prostrate at his feet, uttered a low, hoarse, hollow sound. Was it the soul escaping from the body?
He looked down, he looked round; black clouds seemed to be whirling all around him like wreaths of smoke. He durst not move from where he stood for fear of stumbling against the corpse.
At last he took out his steel and began to strike a light, but in his trepidation, he struck his fingers far oftener than his flint. At last he managed to light a lantern on the table close by, and then came to look at the man stretched on the floor.