Picking it up, and tossing it over to
Mathews, he said--"Do you believe me now? Pshaw! it was not worth
staining my hands and clothes with blood for such a paltry prize."
Mathews laughed heartily at this speech; but there was something so
revolting in the tones of his mirth, that Anthony quickened his pace to
avoid its painful repetition. A few minutes more brought him in sight of
the miser's cottage. No light gleamed from the broken casement, and both
the door and the window of the hovel were wide open, and flapping in the
night wind. Surprised at a circumstance so unusual, Anthony hastily
entered the house. The first object that met his sight rivetted him to
the threshold.
The moon threw a broad line of silver light into the dusty worm-eaten
apartment, and danced and gleamed in horrid mockery upon a stream of
dark liquid which was slowly spreading itself over the floor. And there,
extended upon the brick pavement, his features shockingly distorted, his
hands still clenched, and his white locks dabbled in blood, lay the
cold, mutilated form of his father.
Overpowered with horror, unable to advance or retreat, Anthony continued
to gaze upon the horrid spectacle, until the hair stiffened upon his
head, and a cold perspiration bedewed all his limbs.
Still as he gazed he fancied that the clenched hands moved, that a
bitter smile writhed the thin parted lips of the dead; and influenced by
a strange fascination, against which he struggled in vain, he continued
to watch the ghastly countenance, until horror and astonishment involved
every other object in misty obscurity.
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