Bildungsromans; Boys -- Fiction; Criminals -- Fiction; Kidnapping victims -- Fiction; London (England) -- Fiction; Orphans -- Fiction
There was another roar. At this moment the word was passed among the
crowd that the door was forced at last, and that he who had first
called for the ladder had mounted into the room. The stream abruptly
turned as this intelligence ran from mouth to mouth, and the people
at the windows, seeing those upon the bridges pouring back, quitted
their stations and running into the street joined the concourse that
now thronged pell-mell to the spot they had left, each man crushing
and striving with his neighbour, and all panting with impatience to
get near the door and look upon the criminal as the officers brought
him out. The cries and shrieks of those who were pressed almost to
suffocation or trampled down and trodden under foot in the confusion
were dreadful; the narrow ways were completely blocked up; and at
this time, between the rush of some to regain the space in front
of the house and the unavailing struggles of others to extricate
themselves from the mass, the immediate attention was distracted from
the murderer, although the universal eagerness for his capture was, if
possible, increased.
The man had shrunk down, thoroughly quelled by the ferocity of the
crowd and the impossibility of escape, but seeing this sudden change
with no less rapidity than it occurred, he sprung upon his feet,
determined to make one last effort for his life by dropping into the
ditch, and, at the risk of being stifled, endeavouring to creep away in
the darkness and confusion.
Roused into new strength and energy, and stimulated by the noise within
the house which announced that an entrance had really been effected,
he set his foot against the stack of chimneys, fastened one end of the
rope tightly and firmly round it, and with the other made a strong
running noose by the aid of his hands and teeth almost in a second. He
could let himself down by the cord to within a less distance of the
ground than his own height, and had his knife ready in his hand to cut
it then and drop.
At the very instant that he brought the loop over his head previous
to slipping it beneath his arm-pits, and when the old gentleman
before-mentioned (who had clung so tight to the railing of the bridge
as to resist the force of the crowd, and retain his position) earnestly
warned those about him that the man was about to lower himself down—at
that very instant the murderer, looking behind him on the roof, threw
his arms above his head, and uttered a yell of terror.
“The eyes again!” he cried in an unearthly screech. Staggering
as if struck by lightning, he lost his balance and tumbled over
the parapet; the noose was at his neck; it ran up with his weight
tight as a bow-string and swift as the arrow it speeds. He fell for
five-and-thirty feet. There was a sudden jerk, a terrific convulsion
of the limbs, and there he hung, with the open knife clenched in his
stiffening hand.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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