A terrible scream—a prolonged yell of horror and anguish—burst out of the silence of the moor. That frightful cry turned theblood to ice in my veins.
“Oh， my God！” I gasped. “What is it？ What does it mean？”
Holmes had sprung to his feet， and I saw his dark， athleticoutline at the door of the hut， his shoulders stooping， his headthrust forward， his face peering into the darkness.
“Hush！” he whispered. “Hush！”
The cry had been loud on account of its vehemence， but it hadpealed out from somewhere far off on the shadowy plain. Now itburst upon our ears， nearer， louder， more urgent than before.
“Where is it？” Holmes whispered； and I knew from the thrill ofhis voice that he， the man of iron， was shaken to the soul. “Whereis it， Watson？”
“There， I think.” I pointed into the darkness.
“No， there！”
Again the agonized cry swept through the silent night， louderand much nearer than ever. And a new sound mingled with it，a deep， muttered rumble， musical and yet menacing， rising andfalling like the low， constant murmur of the sea.
“The hound！” cried Holmes. “Come， Watson， come！ Greatheavens， if we are too late！”
He had started running swiftly over the moor， and I hadfollowed at his heels. But now from somewhere among the brokenground immediately in front of us there came one last despairingyell， and then a dull， heavy thud. We halted and listened. Notanother sound broke the heavy silence of the windless night.
I saw Holmes put his hand to his forehead like a man distracted.
He stamped his feet upon the ground.
“He has beaten us， Watson. We are too late.”
“No， no， surely not！”
“Fool that I was to hold my hand. And you， Watson， see whatcomes of abandoning your charge！ But， by Heaven， if the worsthas happened， we’ll avenge him！”
Blindly we ran through the gloom， blundering against boulders，forcing our way through gorse bushes， panting up hills and rushingdown slopes， heading always in the direction whence thosedreadful sounds had come. At every rise Holmes looked eagerlyround him， but the shadows were thick upon the moor， andnothing moved upon its dreary face.
“Can you see anything？”
“Nothing.”
“But， hark， what is that？”
A low moan had fallen upon our ears. There it was again uponour left！ On that side a ridge of rocks ended in a sheer cliff whichoverlooked a stone-strewn slope. On its jagged face was spreadeagledsome dark， irregular object. As we ran towards it the vagueoutline hardened into a definite shape. It was a prostrate manface downward upon the ground， the head doubled under him ata horrible angle， the shoulders rounded and the body hunchedtogether as if in the act of throwing a somersault. So grotesquewas the attitude that I could not for the instant realize that thatmoan had been the passing of his soul. Not a whisper， not a rustle，rose now from the dark figure over which we stooped. Holmeslaid his hand upon him， and held it up again with an exclamationof horror. The gleam of the match which he struck shone upon hisclotted fingers and upon the ghastly pool which widened slowlyfrom the crushed skull of the victim. And it shone upon somethingelse which turned our hearts sick and faint within us—the body ofSir Henry Baskerville！
There was no chance of either of us forgetting that peculiarruddy tweed suit—the very one which he had worn on the firstmorning that we had seen him in Baker Street. We caught the oneclear glimpse of it， and then the match flickered and went out，even as the hope had gone out of our souls. Holmes groaned， andhis face glimmered white through the darkness.
“The brute！ the brute！” I cried with clenched hands. “Oh Holmes，I shall never forgive myself for having left him to his fate.”
“I am more to blame than you， Watson. In order to have mycase well rounded and complete， I have thrown away the life of myclient. It is the greatest blow which has befallen me in my career.
But how could I know—how could l know—that he would risk hislife alone upon the moor in the face of all my warnings？”
“That we should have heard his screams—my God， thosescreams！ —and yet have been unable to save him！ Where is thisbrute of a hound which drove him to his death？ It may be lurkingamong these rocks at this instant. And Stapleton， where is he？ Heshall answer for this deed.”
“He shall. I will see to that. Uncle and nephew have beenmurdered—the one frightened to death by the very sight of abeast which he thought to be supernatural， the other driven to hisend in his wild flight to escape from it. But now we have to provethe connection between the man and the beast. Save from whatwe heard， we cannot even swear to the existence of the latter，since Sir Henry has evidently died from the fall. But， by heavens，cunning as he is， the fellow shall be in my power before anotherday is past！”
We stood with bitter hearts on either side of the mangled body，overwhelmed by this sudden and irrevocable disaster which hadbrought all our long and weary labours to so piteous an end. Then，as the moon rose we climbed to the top of the rocks over whichour poor friend had fallen， and from the summit we gazed out overthe shadowy moor， half silver and half gloom. Far away， miles off， inthe direction of Grimpen， a single steady yellow light was shining.
It could only come from the lonely abode of the Stapletons. Witha bitter curse I shook my fist at it as I gazed.
“Why should we not seize him at once？”
“Our case is not complete. The fellow is wary and cunning tothe last degree. It is not what we know， but what we can prove. Ifwe make one false move the villain may escape us yet.”
“What can we do？”
“There will be plenty for us to do to-morrow. To-night we canonly perform the last offices to our poor friend.”
Together we made our way down the precipitous slope andapproached the body， black and clear against the silvered stones.
The agony of those contorted limbs struck me with a spasm ofpain and blurred my eyes with tears.
“We must send for help， Holmes！ We cannot carry him all theway to the Hall. Good heavens， are you mad？”