At the Eleventh Hour
courtyard to where the struggling mass had been. Had been, but was no longer; for even in the bare half-minute that Merritt had taken in his descent, what was to happen had happened. There was only a crumpled heap upon the ground in the moonlight, that screamed when Merritt touched it, and clutched him, feeling with blind, desperate fingers for his throat. Merritt cried sharply:
"Stop it, Deane, stop it, I tell you! It's I, Merritt! Oh, man, are you off your head entirely?"
With difficulty he mastered him, and held him down, repeating over and over:
it's I—it's only Merritt. Don't fight like this, man—can't you understand—it's Merritt!"
Until Deane's struggles ceased, and he
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