On this chest Mompesson's gaze was so greedily fixed that he
did not notice the body of a man lying directly in his path, and
well-nigh stumbled over it. Uttering a bitter imprecation, he held down
the lamp, and beheld the countenance of Luke Hatton, now rigid in death,
but with the sardonic grin it had worn throughout life still impressed
upon it. There was a deep gash in the breast of the dead man, and blood
upon the floor.
"Accursed spy and traitor," cried Mompesson, as he took hold of the body
by the heels and dragged it to one corner--"thou wilt never betray me
more. What brought thee here I know not, unless it were to meet the
death thou hast merited at my hands. Would a like chance might bring
Osmond Mounchensey here--and alone--I would desire nothing more."
"Be thy wish gratified then!" cried a voice, which Mompesson could not
mistake.
Looking up, he beheld his enemy.
In an instant his hand was upon his sword, and the blade gleamed in the
lamp-light. Osmond had likewise plucked forth his rapier, and held a
poignard in his left hand. For a few moments they gazed at each other
with terrible looks, their breasts animated with an intensity of hatred
which only mortal foes, met under such circumstances, can feel. So
fiercely bloodthirsty were their looks that their disfigured features
seemed to have lost all traces of humanity.
"Yield thee, murtherous villain," cried Osmond at length.
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