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On horror’s head Horrors accumulate.—Thompson. |
An icy sweat of terror bathed Sybil’s form. She tried to cry out, and did utter a low half-stifled scream. But the cold fingers of the ghastly creature closed tightly upon hers, and a thin, hollow voice murmured:
“Hush; don’t you make a noise; don’t be frightened. I can’t hurt you. I’m chilled almost to death. And you were so warm. I crept to your side to tell you something. You are in hiding here, and so—Ah-h-h!”
The reed-like murmur ended in a terrific shriek. There was a silent movement, and Sybil felt the clammy form snatched up from her side and borne away in the darkness.
And then the spell that had bound her faculties was unloosed, and she uttered scream after scream as she shook and awakened her husband.
“In the name of Heaven, Sybil, what now?” he exclaimed, as he started up into a sitting posture.
“Oh, Lyon! for the love of mercy, get up! Get a light! I shall go mad in this horrible place!” she cried in a perfect frenzy of terror.
“Calm yourself, Sybil. There is nothing to fear. I am here with you. I will strike a light,” answered Lyon Berners quietly, as he got up and groped about in the darkness for the tinder-box.
Striking a light in those days was not the quick and easy matter that it is now. When the tinder-box was at length found, the flint and steel had to be struck together until a spark was elicited to set fire to the tinder. So it was full five minutes from the time Lyon was awakened, to the moment that he lit the candle and looked upon the pale and horror-stricken face of his wife.
“Now then, Sybil, what is it?” he inquired.