Will remained inactive as long as the demon was near, but as soon as he heard him go out, he leaped off the bed and made a desperate attempt to open the door. He put forth all his strength—but in vain: the door was rock.
Then he groped about the room, to see if he could find some other means of escape. Again in vain—no outlet presented itself.
“I am a prisoner!” he groaned. “And what a terrible prison! But, oh! poor Henry! Was he dead? Have I killed him? Oh, this is too much!”
Then he recollected that his cousin had insisted that there were captives hidden away in the cave, and in a voice that—we grieve to say it, but truth is inexorable—quavered with fear, he shouted: “Is anyone hidden here?—Speak! Any captives here?”
His own voice mocked him, and he started back in terror.
Evidently, no captives there.
But Will was not comforted. Hobgoblins crawled over the floor, and ground their teeth under the bed—demons crowded round him and jabbered ominously—human skeletons rattled their dry bones horribly, and pointed their fingers jeeringly at him—his murdered cousin came to him, and looked him full in the face with a sad, reproachful smile.
Will could endure it no longer. With a cry of horror and agony he flung himself on the bed, and buried his face in the old buffalo-robe.
At that moment the Demon of the Cave returned and entered his dwelling.