He looked down at the big form of the sleeping man, and suddenly all his pent-up rage burst its bounds. It poured through his veins in streams of fire. He stared about in fierce eagerness in search of a weapon. Blake lay upon the hilt of the revolver; the level rod lacked weight and balance. But the heavy hammer––a blow on the upturned temple of the sleeper!––
With the cunning stealth of madness, Ashton took up the hammer and crept around back of Blake’s head. He straightened on his knees, and peered down at the calm, powerful face of the engineer.
What if he was a veritable Samson, this conqueror of cañons? Where now was his power? Sleep had bound fast his steel muscles, had numbed his indomitable will and locked his keen intellect in the black prison of unconsciousness.
The avenger hovered over him, gloating. Now at last was come the opportunity––the perfect opportunity, down in these uttermost depths, in the secret night time. The world above slept––and he slept. Never should he waken from that sleep; never should he rouse up in his evil strength to escape out of the abyss and bring ruin to her!
Lightly the hammer swung over and downward, measuring the curve of the stroke. It lifted and poised. Again it swung down; and again it lifted and 313 poised. The blow must be certain––there must not be the slightest chance of missing.
Each time the heavy steel head stopped a full two inches short of the upturned temple––but each time its shadow fell across the eyes of the sleeper. He stirred. The hammer whirled up, gripped in both hands of the kneeling man. The sleeper turned flat on his back, with his face full to the light. A quiver ran through the tense muscles of the avenger. Had the eyes of the sleeper opened, had their lids so much as fluttered, the hammer must have crashed down.
But it was the sleeper’s lips that moved. As it were by a miracle of acuteness, the tense nerves of the other’s ear caught the whispered words through the roaring of the river––“Jenny! Son!”
The hammer hurled away out into the swirl of the foam-flecked waters. The avenger flung himself about, face downward on the rock.
“God!” he sobbed, in an agony of remorse. “Forgive me, God! I cannot do it! I am weak––unfit!... Not even to save her!––not even to save her!”
He writhed in the anguish of his love and rage and self-abasement. He had failed; he was too weak to do the deed. But God––Would God permit that evil should befall her?