Getting near me, she lifted the knife again, and I drew myself away to the
left side. She struck, as before right into the mattress, with a swift
downward action of her arm; and she missed me, as before; by a hair's
breadth. This time my eyes wandered from _her_ to the knife. It was like
the large clasp knives which laboring men use to cut their bread and bacon
with. Her delicate little fingers did not hide more than two thirds of the
handle; I noticed that it was made of buckhorn, clean and shining as the
blade was, and looking like new.
For the second time she drew the knife out of the bed, and suddenly hid it
away in the wide sleeve of her gown. That done, she stopped by the bedside
watching me. For an instant I saw her standing in that position--then the
wick of the spent candle fell over into the socket. The flame dwindled to
a little blue point, and the room grew dark.
A moment, or less, if possible, passed so--and then the wick flared up,
smokily, for the last time. My eyes were still looking for her over the
right-hand side of the bed when the last flash of light came. Look as I
might, I could see nothing. The woman with the knife was gone.
I began to get back to myself again. I could feel my heart beating; I
could hear the woeful moaning of the wind in the wood; I could leap up in
bed, and give the alarm before she escaped from the house.
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