The sword was useless. Anthony
threw it into the boiling gulf at his feet. Both hands being now free,
whilst one arm of his opponent hung powerless and bleeding at his side,
he had greatly the advantage. He wrenched the other arm of Michael from
its hold, lifted him from his narrow footing-place, and with a malignant
shout of triumph shook him over the abyss. One startling plunge, and the
wretch sank in the rolling waters. An agonising yell, and but one,
escaped him, as he hung quivering over that yawning portal to eternity;
the next cry was choked by the seethe of the boiling foam. The waves
whirled him round for a moment like some huge leviathan tossing its
prey. He sank into its gorge, and the insatiate gulf swallowed him up
for ever. Anthony drew back. He turned from the horrid scene, with some
yet lingering tokens of compunction, in the expectation of rejoining his
companions; but in vain--the babes and his deliverer had disappeared!
Hildebrand Wentworth had passed the remainder of that day in his own
chamber. It was a dark lone room, leading out of the turret we have
before described. Often had he ascended the narrow stair communicating
with the parapet, and often had he watched the dark woods beneath the
distant mountain.
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