CHAPTER XXXI.
THE DOOMED.
Frank sat up. To do so caused him a mighty effort, and he groaned with pain, while his head became giddy, and he feared that he would faint.
“You’ve got to brace up, old man,” he hoarsely muttered. “This is for your very life. You may be able to escape.”
He touched his throat, and cried out with pain. His breath seemed to whistle in his windpipe, while his heart fluttered and stopped, and acted in a most unnatural manner.
“I am badly broken up,” he thought. “Never felt just like this before. Can’t seem to get into shape.”
He sought the wall, found it, placed his back against it, and there he sat in the darkness, limp as a rag, weak as a kitten, wondering if his strength would ever return.
It was well that his enemies did not reappear just then. He might have struggled to his feet and fought in a feeble manner, but he would have been easily overpowered.
Frank had a mighty will. He resolved to recover his strength, knowing how much he needed it just then, and slowly, little by little, it came back to him.
They had said that Luptus would return and dispose of him. Who was Luptus? Was he the fearful being with the death-cold hands? If so, Frank feared him more than all of the other three.