It had passed through my thoughts to cry out for help again; though few could know better than I, the solitary nature of the spot, and the hopelessness of aid.  But as he sat gloating over me, I was supported by a scornful detestation of him that sealed my lips.  Above all things, I resolved that I would not entreat him, and that I would die making some last poor resistance to him.  Softened as my thoughts of all the rest of men were in that dire extremity; humbly beseeching pardon, as I did, of Heaven; melted at heart, as I was, by the thought that I had taken no farewell, and never never now could take farewell, of those who were dear to me, or could explain myself to them, or ask for their compassion on my miserable errors; still, if I could have killed him, even in dying, I would have done it.

He had been drinking, and his eyes were red and bloodshot.  Around his neck was slung a tin bottle, as I had often seen his meat and drink slung about him in other days.  He brought the bottle to his lips, and took a fiery drink from it; and I smelt the strong spirits that I saw flash into his face.

“Wolf!” said he, folding his arms again, “Old Orlick’s a-going to tell you somethink.  It was you as did for your shrew sister.”

Again my mind, with its former inconceivable rapidity, had exhausted the whole subject of the attack upon my sister, her illness, and her death, before his slow and hesitating speech had formed these words.

“It was you, villain,” said I.

“I tell you it was your doing — I tell you it was done through you,” he retorted, catching up the gun, and making a blow with the stock at the vacant air between us.  “I come upon her from behind, as I come upon you to-night.  I giv’ it her!  I left her for dead, and if there had been a limekiln as nigh her as there is now nigh you, she shouldn’t have come to life again.  But it warn’t Old Orlick as did it; it was you.  You was favoured, and he was bullied and beat.  Old Orlick bullied and beat, eh?  Now you pays for it.  You done it; now you pays for it.”

He drank again, and became more ferocious.  I saw by his tilting of the bottle that there was no great quantity left in it.  I distinctly understood that he was working himself up with its contents, to make an end of me.  I knew that every drop it held, was a drop of my life.  I knew that when I was changed into a part of the vapour that had crept towards me but a little while before, like my own warning ghost, he would do as he had done in my sister’s case — make all haste to the town, and be seen slouching about there, drinking at the ale-houses.  My rapid mind pursued him to the town, made a picture of the street with him in it, and contrasted its lights and life with the lonely marsh and the white vapour creeping over it, into which I should have dissolved.