Острів доктора Моро
Montgomery’s “Bank Holiday.”
Upthebeachbytheboathouseabonfirewasburning,rainingupsparksintotheindistinctnessofthedawn.Aroundthisstruggledamassofblackfigures.IheardMontgomerycallmyname.Ibegantorunatoncetowardsthisfire,revolverinhand.IsawthepinktongueofMontgomery’spistollickoutonce,closetotheground.Hewasdown.Ishoutedwithallmystrengthandfiredintotheair.Iheardsomeonecry,"TheMaster!"Theknottedblackstrugglebrokeintoscatteringunits,thefireleaptandsankdown.ThecrowdofBeastPeoplefledinsuddenpanicbeforeme,upthebeach.InmyexcitementIfiredattheirretreatingbacksastheydisappearedamongthebushes.ThenIturnedtotheblackheapsupontheground.
Montgomerylayonhisback,withthehairy-greyBeast-mansprawlingacrosshisbody.Thebrutewasdead,butstillgrippingMontgomery’sthroatwithitscurvingclaws.NearbylayM’lingonhisfaceandquitestill,hisneckbittenopenandtheupperpartofthesmashedbrandy-bottleinhishand.Twootherfigureslaynearthefire,—theonemotionless,theothergroaningfitfully,everynowandthenraisingitsheadslowly,thendroppingitagain.
IcaughtholdofthegreymanandpulledhimoffMontgomery’sbody;hisclawsdrewdownthetorncoatreluctantlyasIdraggedhimaway.Montgomerywasdarkinthefaceandscarcelybreathing.Isplashedsea-wateronhisfaceandpillowedhisheadonmyrolled-upcoat.M’lingwasdead.
