The Purcell Papers — Volume 3Le Fanu, Joseph Sheridan
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The Purcell Papers — Volume 3
Le Fanu, Joseph Sheridan
Fantasy fiction, English; Ireland -- Fiction
He now grappled with me, strange to say, without uttering any cry of
alarm; being a very powerful man, and if anything rather heavier and
more strongly built than I, he succeeded in drawing me with him to the
ground. We fell together with a heavy crash, tugging and straining in
what we were both conscious was a mortal struggle. At length I succeeded
in getting over him, and struck him twice more in the face; still he
struggled with an energy which nothing but the tremendous stake at issue
could have sustained.
I succeeded again in inflicting several more wounds upon him, any one
of which might have been mortal. While thus contending he clutched his
hands about my throat, so firmly that I felt the blood swelling the
veins of my temples and face almost to bursting. Again and again I
struck the weapon deep into his face and throat, but life seemed to
adhere in him with an almost INSECT tenacity.
My sight now nearly failed, my senses almost forsook me; I felt upon
the point of suffocation when, with one desperate effort, I struck him
another and a last blow in the face. The weapon which I wielded had
lighted upon the eye, and the point penetrated the brain; the body
quivered under me, the deadly grasp relaxed, and Oliver lay upon the
ground a corpse!
As I arose and shook the weapon and the bloody cloth from my hand, the
moon which he had foretold I should never see rise, shone bright and
broad into the room, and disclosed, with ghastly distinctness, the
mangled features of the dead soldier; the mouth, full of clotting blood
and broken teeth, lay open; the eye, close by whose lid the fatal wound
had been inflicted, was not, as might have been expected, bathed in
blood, but had started forth nearly from the socket, and gave to the
face, by its fearful unlikeness to the other glazing orb, a leer more
hideous and unearthly than fancy ever saw. The wig, with all its rich
curls, had fallen with the hat to the floor, leaving the shorn head
exposed, and in many places marked by the recent struggle; the rich lace
cravat was drenched in blood, and the gay uniform in many places soiled
with the same.
It is hard to say, with what feelings I looked upon the unsightly and
revolting mass which had so lately been a living and a comely man. I had
not any time, however, to spare for reflection; the deed was done--the
responsibility was upon me, and all was registered in the book of that
God who judges rightly.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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