Собака Баскервиллей
Death on the Moor
"Hehasbeatenus,Watson. Wearetoolate."
"No,no,surelynot!"
"FoolthatIwastoholdmyhand. Andyou,Watson,seewhatcomesofabandoningyourcharge! But,byHeaven,iftheworsthashappened,we’llavengehim!"
Blindlyweranthroughthegloom,blunderingagainstboulders,forcingourwaythroughgorsebushes,pantinguphillsandrushingdownslopes,headingalwaysinthedirectionwhencethosedreadfulsoundshadcome. AteveryriseHolmeslookedeagerlyroundhim,buttheshadowswerethickuponthemoor,andnothingmoveduponitsdrearyface.
"Canyouseeanything?"
"Nothing."
"But,hark,whatisthat?"
Alowmoanhadfallenuponourears. Thereitwasagainuponourleft! Onthatsidearidgeofrocksendedinasheercliffwhichoverlookedastone-strewnslope. Onitsjaggedfacewasspread-eagledsomedark,irregularobject. Aswerantowardsitthevagueoutlinehardenedintoadefiniteshape. Itwasaprostratemanfacedownwardupontheground,theheaddoubledunderhimatahorribleangle,theshouldersroundedandthebodyhunchedtogetherasifintheactofthrowingasomersault. SogrotesquewastheattitudethatIcouldnotfortheinstantrealizethatthatmoanhadbeenthepassingofhissoul. Notawhisper,notarustle,rosenowfromthedarkfigureoverwhichwestooped. Holmeslaidhishanduponhim,andhelditupagain,withanexclamationofhorror.
