A tunic of the same colour, belted
tightly to the waist, reached the seat--apparently a
box--upon which he sat; his legs and feet were not
seen. His left forearm appeared to rest in his lap;
he moved his pieces with his right hand, which
seemed disproportionately long.
I had shrunk back and now stood a little to one
side of the doorway and in shadow. If Moxon had
looked farther than the face of his opponent he
could have observed nothing now, except that the
door was open. Something forbade me either to
enter or to retire, a feeling--I know not how it
came--that I was in the presence of an imminent
tragedy and might serve my friend by remaining.
With a scarcely conscious rebellion against the in-
delicacy of the act I remained.
The play was rapid. Moxon hardly glanced at the
board before making his moves, and to my un-
skilled eye seemed to move the piece most con-
venient to his hand, his motions in doing so being
quick, nervous and lacking in precision. The response
of his antagonist, while equally prompt in the incep-
tion, was made with a slow, uniform, mechanical and,
I thought, somewhat theatrical movement of the
arm, that was a sore trial to my patience. There
was something unearthly about it all, and I caught
myself shuddering. But I was wet and cold.
Two or three times after moving a piece the
stranger slightly inclined his head, and each time I
observed that Moxon shifted his king.
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