Читать «Лучшие романы Томаса Майна Рида / The Best of Thomas Mayne Reid» онлайн - страница 685

This sort of talk, upon other occasions, had invariably the effect of making his listener more sad; but, strange to say, on that evening, it produced no such a disagreeable consequence. Kate’s fingers flitted over the strings of the instrument, drawing music from them that was far from melancholy.

In truth, the young creole was not listening to the couleur de rose [590] descriptions of the “metwopolis,” and its “opwa,” which Smythje was so strenuously endeavouring to impart to her.

Though seated by the harp, and striking mechanically upon its trings, she was dwelling upon thoughts of a far different character – thoughts suggested by some further intelligence which Yola had communicated to her, and which was the true source of that joy – perhaps but a transitory gleam – that overspread her countenance.

Little did Kate Vaughan suspect that the corpse of her father – lying cold and lifeless upon a stretcher, and surrounded by strange mourners – was at that moment scarce five miles distant from where she sat, and slowly approaching the now masterless mansion of Mount Welcome!

Little did she suspect, while making that music for Smythje, that, from another direction, monsters in human form were moving towards that mansion – their dark shadows projected across the glare of the window-lights – now stationary, now flitting stealthily onward – at each progressive movement drawing nearer and nearer to the walls!

She saw not these shadowy, demon-like men – had no suspicion either of their approach or intent – an intent which comprehended robbery, rapine of a far more fearful kind – murder, if need be.

Neither its mistress, neither Smythje, nor any one else of Mount Welcome, saw or suspected this mysterious circumvallation, until the movement had been successfully executed.

Not a word of warning, not a sign or gesture, was given to the occupants of the apartment, until, with wild, unearthly yells, half-a-dozen fiend-like forms – men of horrid aspect – some with black masks, others with naked visage even more hideous to behold – burst into the grand hall, and commenced the work of pillage.

One, of gigantic size, masked from crown to throat, and wrapped in an ample covering of skin – though not sufficient to conceal the deformity of a hunched back – rushed directly up to where the fair musician was seated; and, dashing the harp to one side, seized upon her wrist before she could disengage herself from her chair.

“Whugh!” came the ejaculation, in loud aspirate, from behind the mask, “I’se got ye at lass, ma Lilly Quasheba – atter many’s de yea’ ob longin’ fo’ hab ye. Ef de quaderoom, ya mudder, she ’cape an’ ’corn me, I’se take care de dauter doan’ get de same chance. You come ’long wi’ me!”

And as the ravisher pronounced these words, he commenced dragging his shrieking victim across the room towards the stair entrance.