There was
a savage, supernatural power in her writhings that taxed even his
gigantic strength to hold her; as it was, he yielded unconsciously to
her impulse so as to recede some paces till they issued out into the
moonlight. He could scarcely recognize her features; they were all
working and contorted, the lips especially horribly drawn back and
tense. She bent her head down at last, and made her teeth meet in the
arm that detained her.
Guy never flinched nor stirred, but spoke again in the same slow,
deliberate tone.
"Isabel, come in. I swear that you shall see him when it is safe. They
are bringing him back now."
She ceased struggling and stood straight up, shaking all over, straining
her eyes forward to the turning in the path where the torches began to
gleam.
"Is he not dead, then?" she said, in a strange, harsh voice, utterly
unlike her own. Her cousin did not try to delude her; all the stern
outline of his face softening in an intense pity told her enough.
Such a scream--weird, long drawn out, and unearthly, such as we fancy the
Banchee's--as that which pierced through my very marrow (though I stood
three hundred yards away, as if it had been uttered close at my ear), I
trust I shall never hear again.
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