And now upon the rushing wind were voices, demon voices that
shrieked and howled at him, filling the whirling blackness with
their vicious clamor.
"Kill him!" they shrieked. "Whether you are in time or no, kill him!
kill him!"
And Barnabas, heedless of the death that hissed and crackled in the
air about him, fronting each lightning-flash with cruel-smiling mouth,
nodded his head to the howling demons and answered:
"Yes, yes, whether in time or no, tonight he dies!"
And now, uplifted with a wild exhilaration, he laughed aloud,
exulting in the storm; and now, crushed by fear and dread, and black
despair, he raved out bitter curses and spurred on into the storm.
Little by little the thought of this man he meant to slay possessed
him utterly; it seemed to Barnabas that he could actually hear his
soft, mocking laughter; it filled the night, rising high above the
hiss of rain and rush of wind--the laugh of a satyr who waits,
confident, assured, with arms out-stretched to clasp a shuddering
goddess.
On beneath trees, dim-seen, that rocked and swayed bending to the
storm, splashing through puddles, floundering through mire, slack of
rein and ready of spur, Barnabas galloped hard.
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