Smayle’s Dilemma.
Tristram’s sinewy fingers tightened upon the slender white throat of the helpless woman until her breath was crushed from her, her face became crimson, and in her wild, starting eyes was a ghastly expression of suffering and despair.
“Mercy!” she managed to gasp with difficulty. “Ah, no! Let me go! let me go!”
“Your evil tongue can ruin me. But you shall not!” he cried in a frenzy of anger, his face suffused by a fierce, murderous passion. “By Heaven, you shall die!”
“If—if you kill me,” she shrieked, “you will suffer; for even though I’m outcast, there is a law here, in your England, to deal with murderers.”
“Outcast!” he echoed wildly, with an imprecation. “Yes; curse you! Is there any wonder that you are hounded out of Italy, after all that has occurred? Is there any wonder, after what took place in Tuscany, that I now hold you within my hands, eager to extinguish the last remaining spark of your life?”
“You’re a brute!” she cried in a hoarse, gurgling voice. “Release me! I—I can’t breathe!”
“No, by Heaven, you shall die!” he declared, his strong, muscular hands trembling with uncurbed passion. “Your infernal tongue shall utter no more foul slanders, for to-night, now—this moment—I’ll silence you!” She uttered a low, agonised cry, then, fainting, panting, breathless, sank upon her knees, unable any longer to resist the frightful pressure upon her throat. At that instant, however, Smayle, hearing an unusual noise, dashed in, and, taking in the situation at a glance, seized his master firmly.
“Good heavens, sir! what’s the matter?” he cried. “Why, you’re killing the lady!”
“Get out?” cried the Captain with an oath, shaking himself free, and still holding the fainting woman at his feet. “Get out quickly! Leave the house, and—and don’t come back!”