Dracula. Bram Stoker

and the great bolts clanged and echoed through the hall

      as they shot back into their places.

      In silence we returned to the library, and after a minute or

      two I went to my own room. The last I saw of Count Dracula

      was his kissing his hand to me; with a red light of triumph in

      his eyes, and with a smile that Judas in hell might be proud of.

      When I was in my room and about to lie down, I thought I

      heard a whispering at my door. I went to it softly and listened.

      Unless my ears deceived me, I heard the voice of the Count:

      «Back, back, to your own place! Your time is not yet come.

      Wait! Have patience! To-night is mine. To-morrow night is

      yours!» There was a low, sweet ripple of laughter, and in a

      rage I threw open the door, and saw without the three terrible

      women licking their lips. As I appeared they all joined in a hor-

      rible laugh, and ran away.

      I came back to my room and threw myself on my knees. It

      is then so near the end? To-morrow! to-morrow! Lord, help me,

      and those to whom I am dear!

      30 June, morning. These may be the last words I ever write

      in this diary. I slept till just before the clawn, and when I woke

      threw myself on my knees, for I determined that if Death came

      he should find me ready.

      48 Dracula

      At last I felt that subtle change in the air, and knew that the

      morning had come. Then came the welcome cock-crow, and I

      felt that I was safe. With a glad heart, I opened my door and ran

      down to the hall. I had seen that the door was unlocked, and now

      escape was before me. With hands that trembled with eagerness,

      I unhooked the chains and drew back the massive bolts.

      But the door would not move. Despair seized me. I pulled,

      and pulled, at the door, and shook it till, massive as it was, it

      rattled in its casement. I could see the bolt shot. It had been

      locked after I left the Count.

      Then a wild desire took me to obtain that key at any risk, and

      I determined then and there to scale the wall again and gain

      the Count’s room. He might kill me, but death now seemed the

      happier choice of evils. Without a pause I rushed up to the east

      window, and scrambled down the wall, as before, into the

      Count’s room. It was empty, but that was as I expected. I could

      not see a key anywhere, but the heap of gold remained. I went

      through the door in the corner and down the winding stair and

      along the dark passage to the old chapel. I knew now well enough

      where to find the monster I sought.

      The great box was in the same place, close against the wall,

      but the lid fras laid on it, not fastened down, but with the nails

      ready in their places to be hammered home. I knew I must

      reach the 6ody for the key, so I raised the lid, and laid it back

      against foe wall; and then I saw something which filled my very

      soul with horror. There lay the Count, but looking as if his

      youtA had been half renewed, for the white hair and moustache

      were changed to dark iron-grey; the cheeks were fuller, and the

      white skin seemed ruby-red underneath; the mouth was redder

      than ever, for on the lips were gouts of fresh blood, which

      trickled from the corners of the mouth and ran over the chin

      and neck. Even the deep, burning eyes seemed set amongst

      swollen flesh, for the lids and pouches underneath were bloated.

      It seemed as if the whole awful creature were simply gorged

      with blood. He lay like a filthy leech, exhausted with his reple-

      tion. I shuddered as I bent over to touch him, and every sense

      in me revolted at the contact; but I had to search, or I was lost.

      The coming night might see my own body a banquet in a similar

      way to those horrid three. I felt all over the body, but no sign

      could I find of the key. Then I stopped and looked at the Count.

      There was a mocking smile on the bloated face which seemed to

      drive me mad. This was the being I was helping to transfer to

      London, where, perhaps, for centuries to come he might, amongs t

      Jonathan Marker’s Journal 49

      its teeming millions, satiate his lust for blood, and create a new

      and ever-widening circle of semi-demons to batten on the help-

      less. The very thought drove me mad. A terrible desire came upon

      me to rid the world of such a monster. There was no lethal wea-

      pon at hand, but I seized a shovel which the workmen had been

      using to fill the cases, and lifting it high, struck, with the edge

      downward, at the hateful face. But as I did so the head turned,

      and the eyes fell full upon me, with all their blaze of basilisk

      horror. The sight seemed to paralyse me, and the shovel turned

      in my hand and glanced from the face, merely making a deep

      gash above the forehead. The shovel fell from my hand across

      the box, and as I pulled it away the flange of the blade caught

      the edge of the lid which fell over again, and hid the horrid

      thing from my sight. The last glimpse I had was of the bloated

      face, blood-stained and fixed with a grin of malice which would

      have held its own in the nethermost hell.

      I thought and thought what should be my next move, but my

      brain seemed on fire, and I waited with a despairing feeling grow-

      ing over me. As I waited I heard in the distance a gipsy song sung

      by merry voices coming closer, and through their song the roll-

      ing of heavy wheels and the cracking of whips; the Szgany and

      the Slovaks of whom the Count had spoken were coming. With

      a last look around and at the box which contained the vile body,

      I ran from the place and gained the Count’s room, determined

      to rush out at the moment the door should be opened. With

      strained ears, I listened, and heard downstairs the grinding of

      the key in the great lock and the falling back of the heavy door.

      There