As it was, he found himself instantly
in the ferocious clutches of Trailcudgel, who dragged him from the
horses, as a tiger would a bull, and ere he could use hand or word in
his own defence, he felt the muzzle of one of his own pistols pressed
against his head.
"Easy, mfriend!" he exclaimed, in a voice that was rendered infirm by
terror; "do not take my life--don't murder me--you shall have my money."
"Murdher!" shouted the other. "Ah, you black dog of hell, it is on your
red sowl that many a murdher lies. Murdher!" he exclaimed, in words that
were thick, vehement, and almost unintelligible with rage. "Ay, murdher
is it? It was a just God that put the words into your guilty heart--and
wicked lips--prepare, your last moment's come--your doom is sealed--are
you ready to die, villain?"
The whole black and fearful tenor of the baronet's life came like a
vision of hell itself over his conscience, now fearfully awakened to the
terrible position in which he felt himself placed.
"Oh, no!" he replied, in a voice whose tremulous tones betrayed the
full extent of his agony and terrors.
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