"You do," groaned the priest. "Your grasp tightens round my throat; your hard and skinny fingers are there—I strangle—help!"
"Your own fears strangle you. My hand is at my side," returned Alan calmly.
"Villain, you lie. Your grasp is like a vice. The strength of a thousand devils is in your hand. Will none lend help? I never pressed so hard. Your daughter never suffered this torture—never—never. I choke—choke—oh!" And the priest rolled heavily backwards.
There was a deep groan; a convulsive rattle in the throat; and all was still.
"He is dead—strangled," cried several voices, holding down the torch. The face of the priest was blackened and contorted; his eyeballs protruded from their sockets; his tongue was nearly bitten through in the desperate efforts he had made to release himself from Alan's gripe; his hair was erect with horror. It was a ghastly sight.
A murmur arose amongst the gipsies. Barbara deemed it prudent to appease them.
"He was guilty," cried she. "He was the murderer of Susan Rookwood."
"And I, her father, have avenged her," said Alan, sternly.
The dreadful silence that followed this speech was broken by the report of a pistol. The sound, though startling, was felt almost as a relief.
"We are beset," cried Alan. "Some of you fly to reconnoitre."