Part 53 (1/2)
”Place your hand upon her breast. Does not the flesh creep and shrink beneath your touch? Now raise your hand--make the cross of your faith upon her bosom. By that faith you swear you are innocent.”
”I do,” returned the priest; ”are you now satisfied?”
”No,” replied Alan. ”Let the torch be removed. Your innocence must be more deeply attested,” continued he, as the light was withdrawn. ”This proof will not fail. Entwine your fingers round her throat.”
”Have I not done enough?”
”Your hesitation proves your guilt,” said Alan.
”That proof is wanting, then?” returned the priest; ”my hand is upon her throat--what more?”
”As you hope for mercy in your hour of need, swear that you never conspired against her life, or refused her mercy.”
”I swear it.”
”May the dead convict you of perjury if you have forsworn yourself,”
said Alan; ”you are free. Take away your hand!”
”Ha! what is this?” exclaimed the priest. ”You have put some jugglery upon me. I cannot withdraw my hand. It sticks to her throat, as though 'twere glued by blood. Tear me away. I have not force enough to liberate myself. Why do you grin at me? The corpse grins likewise. It is jugglery. I am innocent. You would take away my life. Tear me away, I say: the veins rise; they blacken; they are filling with new blood. I feel them swell; they coil like living things around my fingers. She is alive.”
”And you are innocent?”
”I am--I am. Let not my ravings convict me. For Jesu's sake, release me.”
”Blaspheme not, but arise. I hold you not.”
”You do,” groaned the priest. ”Your grasp tightens round my throat; your hard and skinny fingers are there--I strangle--help!”
”Your own fears strangle you. My hand is at my side,” returned Alan calmly.
”Villain, you lie. Your grasp is like a vice. The strength of a thousand devils is in your hand. Will none lend help? I never pressed so hard.
Your daughter never suffered this torture--never--never. I choke--choke--oh!” And the priest rolled heavily backwards.
There was a deep groan; a convulsive rattle in the throat; and all was still.
”He is dead--strangled,” cried several voices, holding down the torch.
The face of the priest was blackened and contorted; his eyeb.a.l.l.s protruded from their sockets; his tongue was nearly bitten through in the desperate efforts he had made to release himself from Alan's gripe; his hair was erect with horror. It was a ghastly sight.
A murmur arose amongst the gipsies. Barbara deemed it prudent to appease them.
”He was guilty,” cried she. ”He was the murderer of Susan Rookwood.”
”And I, _her father_, have avenged her,” said Alan, sternly.
The dreadful silence that followed this speech was broken by the report of a pistol. The sound, though startling, was felt almost as a relief.
”We are beset,” cried Alan. ”Some of you fly to reconnoitre.”