beyond endurance of the bravest soul
In flesh and blood enrobed.—Joanna Baillie.
Wynnette’s blood curdled. She would have cried out, but her organs of speech seemed paralyzed. She would have struggled to free herself, but the icy hand closed on her wrist like a fetter, and drew her on. She could only pray mutely and hard.
She could see nothing before her, not even the fingers of frost that closed around her wrist, and drew her on and on through the black darkness.
Again she tried to cry out, but the sound of her voice died in her throat. Again she tried to struggle, but the cold hand drew her on and on with irresistible power.
Where was it taking her? Perhaps to the terrible trap opening into the shaft leading down to the dread Dungeon of the Dark Death, under the foundations of the castle.
Oh, if she could only cry out. Oh, if she could only tear herself away from her horrible invisible captor. Oh, if she could but see where she was. But her voice seemed palsied and her limbs paralyzed, while she was drawn on and on through deepest darkness by an icy, invisible, irresistible hand. On and on, now to the right, now to the left, now up a few rugged steps, and now down and down into deeper depths of darkness, if that were possible.
Once more Wynnette tried to cry out, but failed; tried to escape, but failed; strained her eyes to see, but failed utterly in all attempts.
“It is a dream! It is a nightmare! Oh, if I could only scream so they would hear me and come to me. Oh, father! Oh, mother! Oh, Lord, have mercy on me!” her spirit cried, in her agony of terror, but no word came from her frozen lips.
Down—down—down—into profounder abysms of blackness.