Oh,
what would I not give now for the sight of my two eyes."
And the blind man began to weep bitterly.
"That man killed my wife and blinded me and now when I hear him
approach, when I hear him coming towards me all alone I cannot see him.
I cannot rush in and close with him. Be valiant, Domnule, and God be
with you. May the soul of my Mariora direct the edge of your sword and
darken his eyes. Hearken!--is not that he approaching!"
And it was actually he. The tall elegant figure was descending the
moonlight rocks with a light, elastic tread, dressed from head to foot
in a black atlas mantle. Szilard saw him drawing nearer and nearer, step
by step, to the mill behind a pillar of whose verandah he himself was
concealed expectant.
At the very moment when he perceived this figure, his former terror gave
way before a strange, resolute fury which now filled his heart, a
feeling familiar only to those whose blood is set boiling whenever they
are suddenly confronted by a pressing danger. He feared the man no
longer, he burned to encounter him.
Blind Juon stood beside him and pressed his hand. They both of them
began to listen intently, nature itself was as still as if the wind
also would listen. Nothing was audible but the dull measured tramp of
the approaching footsteps.
The black shape now footed the bridge; with a confident gait he
approached the middle of it, another step and the bridge gave way
beneath him and with an involuntary cry the man in black plunged into
the water.
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