But the better nature within the man maintained a fierce conflict with the worse.
“He murdered my son—my darling Orley!” murmured the madman, as he felt the keen edge and point of his knife, and crept towards the sleeper, while a fitful flicker of the dying fire betrayed the awful light that seemed to blaze in his eyes. “He carried me from my home! He left Marie to die in hopeless grief! Ha! ha! ha! Oh God! keep me back—back from this.”
The noise awoke Rosco, who sat up and gazed at Zeppa in horror, for he saw at a glance that a fit of his madness must have seized him.
“Zeppa!” he exclaimed, raising himself with difficulty on both hands, and gazing sternly in the madman’s face.
“Ha!” exclaimed the latter, suddenly throwing his knife on the ground within Rosco’s reach, “see, I scorn to take advantage of your unarmed condition. Take that and defend yourself. I will content myself with this.”
He caught up the heavy staff which he was in the habit of carrying with him in his mountain rambles. At the same instant Rosco seized the knife and flung it far into the bush.
“See! I am still unarmed,” he said.
“True, but you are not the less guilty, Rosco, and you must die. It is my duty to kill you.”
He advanced with the staff up-raised.
“Stay! Let us consider before you strike. Are you not a self-appointed executioner?”