...
He tore the thing loose--it was only an instant, really, but it seemed
an age--and, still shrieking, flung it full at us.
I was paralysed with terror, incapable of movement, staring
dumbly--but Godfrey swept me aside so sharply that I almost fell.
And that foul shape swished past us, fell with a thud, and was lost in
the darkness.
CHAPTER XXIV
KISMET!
Words cannot paint the nauseating horror of that moment. Fear--cold,
abject, awful fear--ran through my veins like a drug; my face was
clammy with the sweat of utter terror; my hands clutched wildly at
some drapery, which tore from its fastenings and came down in my
grasp....
Three shafts of lights swept across the floor, and almost at once
picked up that horrid shape. It was coiled with head raised, ready to
strike, and I saw that one side of its hood had been shot away.
I have, more than once, referred to Simmonds as hard-headed and
wanting in imagination--not always, I fear, in terms the most
respectful. For that I ask his pardon; I shall not make that mistake
again. For, in that nerve-racking moment, he never lost his coolness.
Revolver in hand, he crept cautiously forward, while we others held
our breath; then the pistol spoke, one, twice, thrice, and the ugly
head fell forward to the floor.
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