"Poor wretch!" muttered the stranger, "what hinders now my long-sought vengeance? Even with my foot—but thou shalt share my murdered sister's grave!"
"A shot is fired—look out for the light!" said the young man.
The Fisher went to the door; but suddenly started back, clasping his hands before his face.
"Fire and brimstone! there it is again!" he cried.
"What?" said his companion, looking cooly round him.
"That infernal hand! Lightnings blast it!—but that's impossible," he added, in a fearful under-tone, which sounded as if some of the eternal rocks around him were adding a response to his imprecations—"that's impossible! It is a part of them—it has been so for years—darkness could not shroud it—distance could not separate it from my burning eye-balls!—awake, it was there—asleep, it flickered and blazed before me!—it has been my rock a-head through life, and it will herald me to hell!" So saying, he pressed his sinewy hands upon his face, and buried his head between his knees, till the rock beneath him seemed to shake with his uncontrollable agony.
"Again it beckons me!" said he, starting up—"ten thousand fires are blazing in my heart—in my brain!—where, where can I be worse? Fiend, I defy thee!"
"I see nothing," said his companion, with unalterable composure.
"You see nothing!" thundered the Fisher, with mingling sarcasm and fury—"look there." He snatched his hand, and pointing steadily into the gloom, again murmured, "Look there! look there!"
At that moment the lightning blazed around with appalling brilliancy; and the stranger saw a small white hand, pointing tremulously upwards.