I only felt that there was something horrible, menacing, hideously malignant in the figure at my feet: only craved for strength of will to dash by it, reach the door and fling myself down the stairs--anywhere--away from it.

Had it stirred, I believe it had then and there destroyed my reason.
But it did not stir.

And all the while I knew that the thing lay with its breast in a bath of blood; that it had been stabbed in the back and the blood welling down under the clothes had gathered in a pool, ready to gush and spread on all sides as soon as the body should be lifted or its attitude interfered with.

I cannot tell how I found time to reason this out; but I did.
I knew, too, that I could not scream aloud if I tried: but I had no desire to try.

_It_ might wake and lift up its head! I felt backwards with my hand along the wall, groping unconsciously for something to aid my spring towards the door; but desisted.