Ahpilus stands looking at the
beautiful maiden who crouches in front of him; and as he gazes his
powerful form seems to swell, as does that of a wild animal that has
determined to spring upon its prey. His arms move forward to grasp her.
He has no fear of interruption--he has for the moment forgotten the
strangers. He slightly alters his position--his back is toward the
chasm--his hands touch the person of his prey. Lilama partly raises her
head. She glances past the maniac for a last look at her lover. She does
not scream, even as those vise-like hands close upon her, and slowly,
oh, so slowly, but steadily, draw her within that iron embrace--slowly,
slowly, as might a maniac devotee move in the desecration of his idol.
"But why does she not scream? Why are her eyes fastened--not on her
lover--not on the madman, but upon another object? What is that object?
Is it a man? Can any man move as that thing moves? Surely that cannot be
a man, that streak of drab color--yonder thing that casts to the ground
a garment, then shoots backward twenty feet from the abyss--swifter than
a panther, as silent as death, with two balls of living fire glaring
from--from a face? Surely not a human face! Yes, it is a human face.
Pages:
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196