Остров доктора Моро
Montgomery’s “Bank Holiday.”
Thewoundedcreaturebythefire—itwasaWolf-brutewithabeardedgreyface—lay,Ifound,withtheforepartofitsbodyuponthestillglowingtimber.ThewretchedthingwasinjuredsodreadfullythatinmercyIblewitsbrainsoutatonce.TheotherbrutewasoneoftheBull-menswathedinwhite.Hetoowasdead.TherestoftheBeastPeoplehadvanishedfromthebeach.
IwenttoMontgomeryagainandkneltbesidehim,cursingmyignoranceofmedicine.Thefirebesidemehadsunkdown,andonlycharredbeamsoftimberglowingatthecentralendsandmixedwithagreyashofbrushwoodremained.IwonderedcasuallywhereMontgomeryhadgothiswood.ThenIsawthatthedawnwasuponus.Theskyhadgrownbrighter,thesettingmoonwasbecomingpaleandopaqueintheluminousblueoftheday.Theskytotheeastwardwasrimmedwithred.
SuddenlyIheardathudandahissingbehindme,and,lookinground,sprangtomyfeetwithacryofhorror.Againstthewarmdawngreattumultuousmassesofblacksmokewereboilingupoutoftheenclosure,andthroughtheirstormydarknessshotflickeringthreadsofblood-redflame.Thenthethatchedroofcaught.Isawthecurvingchargeoftheflamesacrosstheslopingstraw.Aspurtoffirejettedfromthewindowofmyroom.
Iknewatoncewhathadhappened.IrememberedthecrashIhadheard.WhenIhadrushedouttoMontgomery’sassistance,Ihadoverturnedthelamp.
