“Who are you?”
“Nobody,” was the slow, soft answer, in a tone strangely sad and sweet to come from such dried and withered lips.
“Are you—alive?” breathed Wynnette, in fearsome tones.
“Alive? Nay, babe, nor are you,” replied the same slow, sweet voice.
“I thought so; that is, I knew I was dead. But I thought maybe you and—and—and—the other dev—I mean the other—I mean I thought the natives of this place might be alive,” faltered Wynnette.
“Nay, child, I am dead as well as thou. We are both dead. But I have been dead longer than thou! Ay, ay, many years than thou, I reckon; for thou cannot be older than sixteen or seventeen, and I be ninety-seven. Ay, ay, I ha’ been dead a long time.”
The voice that spoke those words was as tender and plaintive as the notes of an Eolian harp.
“Are—we—are—we—in h—I mean, are we in the woeful place?”
“Yes, babe, we are in the woeful place. You and I and many, many, many millions, and millions and millions of others are dead and buried, and in the woeful place.”
“I feel as if I were alive, though. No, not quite; but almost alive,” said Wynnette, first pinching her own arm and then setting her teeth in it, and biting so hard that she only escaped breaking the skin.