England -- Fiction; Humorous stories; Male friendship -- Fiction; Men -- Societies and clubs -- Fiction
He was dead; he had killed him, and
had kept his oath.
‘He was traversing the scorching sands of a mighty desert, barefoot and
alone. The sand choked and blinded him; its fine thin grains entered the
very pores of his skin, and irritated him almost to madness. Gigantic
masses of the same material, carried forward by the wind, and shone
through by the burning sun, stalked in the distance like pillars of
living fire. The bones of men, who had perished in the dreary waste, lay
scattered at his feet; a fearful light fell on everything around; so far
as the eye could reach, nothing but objects of dread and horror
presented themselves. Vainly striving to utter a cry of terror, with his
tongue cleaving to his mouth, he rushed madly forward. Armed with
supernatural strength, he waded through the sand, until, exhausted with
fatigue and thirst, he fell senseless on the earth. What fragrant
coolness revived him; what gushing sound was that? Water! It was indeed
a well; and the clear fresh stream was running at his feet. He drank
deeply of it, and throwing his aching limbs upon the bank, sank into a
delicious trance. The sound of approaching footsteps roused him. An old
gray-headed man tottered forward to slake his burning thirst. It was
_he_ again! He wound his arms round the old man’s body, and held him
back. He struggled, and shrieked for water--for but one drop of water to
save his life! But he held the old man firmly, and watched his agonies
with greedy eyes; and when his lifeless head fell forward on his bosom,
he rolled the corpse from him with his feet.
‘When the fever left him, and consciousness returned, he awoke to find
himself rich and free, to hear that the parent who would have let him
die in jail--_would_! who _had _let those who were far dearer to him
than his own existence die of want, and sickness of heart that medicine
cannot cure--had been found dead in his bed of down. He had had all the
heart to leave his son a beggar, but proud even of his health and
strength, had put off the act till it was too late, and now might gnash
his teeth in the other world, at the thought of the wealth his
remissness had left him. He awoke to this, and he awoke to more. To
recollect the purpose for which he lived, and to remember that his enemy
was his wife’s own father--the man who had cast him into prison, and
who, when his daughter and her child sued at his feet for mercy, had
spurned them from his door. Oh, how he cursed the weakness that
prevented him from being up, and active, in his scheme of vengeance!
‘He caused himself to be carried from the scene of his loss and misery,
and conveyed to a quiet residence on the sea-coast; not in the hope of
recovering his peace of mind or happiness, for both were fled for ever;
but to restore his prostrate energies, and meditate on his darling
object. And here, some evil spirit cast in his way the opportunity for
his first, most horrible revenge.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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