The Mysteries of the Court of London — page 111: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

88 REYNOLDS’ WORKS Besides,’’ added Monsieur Volney, ‘‘ a very few words will explain the rest, and these words shall be quickly said.” ‘“ No, no,’ gasped Zoe, but her accents were even less audible than those in which the Frenchman had just been speaking. } ‘It was amidst that cloud of beating sleet, mingled with snowflakes,” continued Monsieur Volney, heedless of Lady Octavian’s weak and feeble interruption, ‘‘ that the horse- man advanced. I stood with my back toward him until he was on a level with me; then in consequence of the sudden- ness with which I turned toward him, his horse started, shied, and flung the viscount from his back. Thescene was terrible. The animal reared, fell back upon its haunches, and slipping with its hinder hoofs, was in an instant over the precipice. The fearful cry which it sent up from the tremendous depth into which it was plunging down was like the voices of a dozen human beings all concentrated in the horrible concord of one wild, terrific yell of agony. At the same instant my knee was upon the breast of Delorme, — my hand grasped his throat. The rage of ten thousand fiends was boiling in the hell of my soul; there was the strength of an iron vise in the fingers that were tightening about my enemy’s neck. Desperate were his struggles, but he had no more chance in contending with me than if he were an infant in the hands of a giant. And yet naturally he was far stronger than I, more powerful of form, more vigorous of arm and limb. For it was the raging pandemonium of my vindictive fury that rendered me at the time invincible, irresistible, dominant, and which gave me the strength of ten thousand. A few moments, and I started up with a revulsion of unutterable horror in my soul, for that viselike gripe of mine had only relaxed its hold upon the viscount’s throat when the last breath and sigh of life had come gurgling from his lips. He at last was a corpse; and I —I, Lady Octavian Meredith, stood there, amidst that wild Alpine scene, a branded murderer.”’ Zoe gazed, with a ghastly terror and a horror-stricken stupefaction of the feelings, upon the equally ghastly face of __ Monsieur Volney. She was transfixed to her seat; she seemed turned into a statue; all the blood had curdled in her veins. Her lips were apart, but no breath came through them, it was held in awful suspense; her bosom remained upheaved. ECORNICLIOOKS m