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Quiller-Couch, Arthur Thomas, Sir, 1863-1944

"Dead Man's Rock"


Bareheaded, with the light breeze fanning my curls, I stood there and
waited for his leap. But that leap never came.
One step forward he took and then looked, and looking, staggered back
with hands thrown up before his face. Slowly, as he cowered back
with hands upraised and straining eyeballs, I saw those eyeballs grow
rigid, freeze and turn to stone, while through his gaping, bloodless
lips came a hoarse and gasping sound that had neither words nor
meaning.
Then as I still watched, with murderous purpose on my face, there
came one awful cry, a scream that startled the gulls from slumber and
awoke echo after echo along the shore--a scream like no sound in
earth or heaven--a scream inhuman and appalling.
Then followed silence, and as the last echo died away, he fell.
As he collapsed within the pit, I made a step forward to the brink
and looked. He was now upon his hands and knees before the chest,
bathing his hands in the gleaming heap of gems, catching them up in
handfuls, and as they ran like sparkling rain through his fingers,
muttering incoherently to himself and humming wild snatches of song.


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