A movement brought the girl’s eyes up from the pool of blood. The surviving man, still standing in the middle of the field, coolly drew out a cigar, lighted it, and placed it between his lips, all while gazing with complete satisfaction at the dead man.
Her shuddering cry broke the silence. “Murderer!”
From that brief summer dream she was aroused by some sudden noise. Starting up, she
saw the sheep bounding far away, while a large, gaunt, wolfish dog snuffed at
her hands and face.
Once before, Edna had seen this dog chained near the stables, and Hagar told her he was “very dangerous,” and was never loosed except at night. The expression of his fierce, red eyes as he stood over her made her freeze, her heart pounding.
St. Elmo is a damn good story, and I’ll be the first to be tackling people in the street saying READ THIS BOOK. You know, St. Elmo was the third top-selling novel in the 1800s, up there with Uncle Tom’s Cabin and Ben-Hur. When it first came out, the publisher had fifteen cylinder presses running day and night to keep up with the demand. But there are some issues with this novel that caused it to fall out of favor over the years. So now I’ve edited it.
