The Works of Edgar Allan Poe — Volume 3Poe, Edgar Allan
General
The Works of Edgar Allan Poe — Volume 3
Poe, Edgar Allan
American fiction -- 19th century; Fantasy fiction; Horror tales, American
with an expression of the most deadly animosity, and I expected
every instant that he would attack me. At last I could endure my
terrible situation no longer, and determined to make my way from
the box at all hazards, and dispatch him, if his opposition
should render it necessary for me to do so. To get out, I had to
pass directly over his body, and he already seemed to anticipate
my design—missing himself upon his fore-legs (as I perceived by
the altered position of his eyes), and displayed the whole of his
white fangs, which were easily discernible. I took the remains of
the ham-skin, and the bottle containing the liqueur, and secured
them about my person, together with a large carving-knife which
Augustus had left me—then, folding my cloak around me as closely
as possible, I made a movement toward the mouth of the box. No
sooner did I do this, than the dog sprang with a loud growl
toward my throat. The whole weight of his body struck me on the
right shoulder, and I fell violently to the left, while the
enraged animal passed entirely over me. I had fallen upon my
knees, with my head buried among the blankets, and these
protected me from a second furious assault, during which I felt
the sharp teeth pressing vigorously upon the woollen which
enveloped my neck—yet, luckily, without being able to penetrate
all the folds. I was now beneath the dog, and a few moments would
place me completely in his power. Despair gave me strength, and I
rose boldly up, shaking him from me by main force, and dragging
with me the blankets from the mattress. These I now threw over
him, and before he could extricate himself, I had got through the
door and closed it effectually against his pursuit. In this
struggle, however, I had been forced to drop the morsel of
ham-skin, and I now found my whole stock of provisions reduced to
a single gill of liqueur. As this reflection crossed my mind, I
felt myself actuated by one of those fits of perverseness which
might be supposed to influence a spoiled child in similar
circumstances, and, raising the bottle to my lips, I drained it
to the last drop, and dashed it furiously upon the floor.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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