Собака Баскервіллів

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. 

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