Then came the old cursed sense of unreality. For aught I knew this all might be a dream; I might be suffering like the poet or the sculptor, or any of the others I had seen.
Like them I stretched out my arms, trying to push the horrid thing away, because, dream or no dream, the pain was unmistakable to me.
Upon this there came another hard conviction.
None left this gloomy region except through death. Every tortured spirit lingered, then passed away back to the earth, or some equivalent.
I thought drearily if this would be my end, and laughed aloud, for the earth knew me not, neither did heaven, and to my own land, branded with the breath of hell, I could never come.
I recognised more horribly what would be the end. For death to me was death in entirety, the pitiable weakness of which Plucritus had spoken, a total dismemberment and absorption by some—yes, why not?—by some arch-vampire, even perhaps Vestasian, or one of the others.
The more I thought of him the more clearly I discerned his nature. He had told me to think. Indeed, I might think safely whilst others laughed. Through all that night I lay awake, hating the coming day, yet longing for the night to flee away. Towards morning, as the darkest hour approached, I happened to look across toward the wall. There a feeble light was flickering. As I looked it died away, and soon afterwards the dawn broke red and golden. On that I fell asleep, wearily forgetful of all things till wakened by the slave who waited on me.
I remember he pressed me once more with many sighs, and even tears, to wear apparel he had brought for me, but I refused.
On descending to the lower hall I found Plucritus sitting reading. He was dressed ready for going out, and by his side Vestné sat perusing a letter. She looked up as I came to them, and the news was evidently very pleasing to her, for she was smiling. But when she saw me a slight frown puckered up her brow.
“Good-morning, Genius,” she greeted me at last. “We feared you were not well, you are so late.”