“Two sudden blows with a ragged stick, And one with a ’eavy stone, One ’urried gash with a ’asty knife,— And then the deed was done: There was nothing lying at my feet But lifeless flesh and bone!
“Nothing but lifeless flesh and bone, That could not do me hill; And yet Hi feared ’im hall the more For lying there so still. There was a manhood in ’is look That murder could not kill!
“And, lo! the universal hair Seemed lit with ghastly flame,— Ten thousand thousand dreadful eyes Were looking down in blame; Hi took the dead man by ’is ’and——”
Riles’ face was writhing in an effort to find expression, but the vocal organs refused to fill their office. Like most men of low moral nature, while scoffing at religion he was an easy victim to the terrors of the supernatural. The fact that this orphan boy, the victim of his brutality for so many years, should lie awake at the dead of night stammering through these ghastly lines must carry some horrible significance. He tried to speak, but a muffled gurgle in his throat was all the sound that responded.
It was enough. Wilfred’s ears, sharpened by the terror of the thing he read, caught and magnified the guttural noise. With a shriek he sprang from the bed and, standing in the centre of the floor, his body bent forward, his fingers clutching in nervous excitement, he peered about the musty little room. Presently his eyes fell upon the livid face of Riles, just above the floor line. They fixed each other in a stare of terror, but, to his own great surprise, the boy found a strong sense of self-control beginning to bear him up.
He was first to break the silence. “So hit was you, ’Iram Riles. You couldn’t sty awy. These words drew you loike a magnet draws a needle. Listen, w’ile Hi read ye more——”
“Don’t, boy; don’t!” Riles managed to exclaim. “It isn’t true. I never harmed him.”
Wilfred’s mind seemed to be acting by telepathy rather than from his own initiative. Afterwards he could not guess what put the words in his mouth.
“Yuh never ’armed ’im, didn’t yuh? Well, w’ere is ’e? W’ere is ’e, ’Iram Riles? That’s wot people are haskin’, an’ they’re thinkin’ o’ you w’en they hask it. W’ere is ’e?”
“I don’t know, Wilfred”—he had never called him Wilfred before—“I don’t know where he is. I didn’t touch him. I tell yuh it never struck him, do yuh hear?”