Above all hangs the dreadful night.
He pleads with her.
His hand is on her arm.
They stand in the cold, solemn night, gazing into a brilliantly lighted room. His face is white and terror-stricken. Hers is willful, defiant, and white with the surging impulse of destiny.
Ten miles away on the Harrisburg road a draggle-tailed rooster crows, but the woman does not falter.
He pleads with her.
She shakes off his hand with a gesture of loathing, and takes a step forward toward the lighted room.
He pleads with her.
Crystal flakes of moonlight quiver on the trees above; star dust flecks the illimitable rim of the Ineligible. The whicheverness of the Absolute reigns preeminent.
Sin is below; peace above.
The whip of the north wind trails a keen lash upon them. Carriages sweep by. Frost creeps upon the stones, lies crustily along parapets, spangles and throws back in arctic scintillation the moon's challenging rays.
He pleads with her.
At last, she turns, conquered.
He has refused to treat to oysters.
YOU ARE READING
Lord Oakhurst's Curse
HorrorBy O. Henry Lord Oakhurst lay dying in the oak chamber in the eastern wing of Oakhurst Castle.
