Guy Mannering or The Astrologer

'Donner and hagel! it is his voice,' said the prisoner, sitting up and clashing his fetters as he rose; 'then my dream is true! Begone, and leave me to myself; it will be your best.'

'What! my good friend,' said Glossin, 'will you allow the prospect of a few weeks' confinement to depress your spirit?'

'Yes,' answered the ruffian, sullenly, 'when I am only to be released by a halter! Let me alone; go about your business, and turn the lamp from my face!'

'Psha! my dear Dirk, don't be afraid,' said Glossin; 'I have a glorious plan to make all right.'

'To the bottomless pit with your plans!' replied his accomplice; 'you have planned me out of ship, cargo, and life; and I dreamt this moment that Meg Merrilies dragged you here by the hair and gave me the long clasped knife she used to wear; you don't know what she said. Sturmwetter! it will be your wisdom not to tempt me!'

'But, Hatteraick, my good friend, do but rise and speak to me,' said Glossin.

'I will not!' answered the savage, doggedly. 'You have caused all the mischief; you would not let Meg keep the boy; she would have returned him after he had forgot all.'

'Why, Hatteraick, you are turned driveller!'

'Wetter! will you deny that all that cursed attempt at Portanferry, which lost both sloop and crew, was your device for your own job?'

'But the goods, you know―'

'Curse the goods!' said the smuggler, 'we could have got plenty more; but, der deyvil! to lose the ship and the fine fellows, and my own life, for a cursed coward villain, that always works his own mischief with other people's hands! Speak to me no more; I'm dangerous.'

'But, Dirk―but, Hatteraick, hear me only a few words.'

'Hagel! nein.'

'Only one sentence.'

'Tousand curses! nein.'

'At least get up, for an obstinate Dutch brute!' said Glossin, losing his temper and pushing Hatteraick with his foot.

'Donner and blitzen!' said Hatteraick, springing up and grappling with him; 'you WILL have it then?'

Glossin struggled and resisted; but, owing to his surprise at the fury of the assault, so ineffectually that he fell under Hatteraick, the back part of his neck coming full upon the iron bar with stunning violence. The death-grapple continued. The room immediately below the condemned ward, being that of Glossin, was, of course, empty; but the inmates of the second apartment beneath felt the shock of Glossin's heavy fall, and heard a noise as of struggling and of groans. But all sounds of horror were too congenial to this place to excite much curiosity or interest.

In the morning, faithful to his promise, Mac-Guffog came. 'Mr. Glossin,' said he, in a whispering voice.

'Call louder,' answered Dirk Hatteraick.

'Mr. Glossin, for God's sake come away!'

'He'll hardly do that without help,' said Hatteraick.

'What are you chattering there for, Mac-Guffog?' called out the captain from below.

'Come away, for God's sake, Mr. Glossin!' repeated the turnkey.

At this moment the jailor made his appearance with a light. Great was his surprise, and even horror, to observe Glossin's body lying doubled across the iron bar, in a posture that excluded all idea of his being alive. Hatteraick was quietly stretched upon his pallet within a yard of his victim. On lifting Glossin it was found he had been dead for some hours. His body bore uncommon marks of violence. The spine where it joins the skull had received severe injury by his first fall. There were distinct marks of strangulation about the throat, which corresponded with the blackened state of his face. The head was turned backward over the shoulder, as if the neck had been wrung round with desperate violence. So that it would seem that his inveterate antagonist had fixed a fatal gripe upon the wretch's throat, and never quitted it while life lasted. The lantern, crushed and broken to pieces, lay beneath the body.

Mac-Morlan was in the town, and came instantly to examine the corpse. 'What brought Glossin here?' he said to Hatteraick.

'The devil!' answered the ruffian.

'And what did you do to him?'

'Sent him to hell before me!' replied the miscreant.

'Wretch,' said Mac-Morlan, 'you have crowned a life spent without a single virtue with the murder of your own miserable accomplice!'

'Virtue?' exclaimed the prisoner. 'Donner! I was always faithful to my shipowners―always accounted for cargo to the last stiver. Hark ye! let me have pen and ink and I'll write an account of the whole to our house, and leave me alone a couple of hours, will ye; and let them take away that piece of carrion, donnerwetter!'