He felt the vine whip about his legs and fasten there tenaciously, felt it twist and twine and crawl like a mass of serpents, and he knew he was in the grasp of the frightful plant which till that hour he had ever believed a creation of some romancer's feverish fancy.
Frank did not cry out. A great horror seemed to come upon him and benumb his body and his senses.
He could feel the horrid vines climbing and coiling about him, and he was helpless to struggle and tear them away. He knew they were mounting to his neck, where they would curl about his throat and choke the breath of life from his body.
It was a fearful fate—a terrible death. And there seemed no possible way of escaping.
Higher and higher climbed the vine, swaying and squirming, the blood-red flowers opening and closing like lips of a vampire that thirsted for his blood.
A look of horror was frozen on Frank's face. His eyes bulged from his head, and his lips were drawn back from his teeth. He did not cry out, he did not seem to breathe, but he appeared to be turned to stone in the grasp of the deadly plant.
It was a dreadful sight, and the two sailors, rough and wicked men though they were, were overcome by the spectacle. Shuddering and gasping, they turned away.
For the first time, Gage seemed to fully realize what he had done. He covered his eyes with his hand and staggered backward, uttering a low, groaning sound.
Merriwell's staring eyes seemed fastened straight upon him with that fearful stare, and the thought flashed through the mind of the wretched boy that he should never forget those eyes.
"They will haunt me as long as I live!" he panted. "Why did I do it? Why did I do it?"