“Be still,” muttered Webster, in hollow tones.
Hume suppressed the fierce retort that rose to his lips, and the others sat staring at the opening, finding in this new suggestion of unknown danger a fear which quenched the speculation about the mysterious nature of their bondage. So they sat on, while from beyond there came to them a confused sound of shouting, while the sunlight streamed in in a white light, and the broad leaves of the vine rustled softly, and imagination working on their fears kept their senses on the rack. The air grew closer, their lips were parched, and the sweet odour in the heavy air oppressed their breathing.
“Speak,” whispered Laura, moistening her lips.
“Yes, for God’s sake break this silence! It is worse than death;” and Hume rolled impatiently from side to side.
“Yes,” muttered Webster; “it is terrible, this waiting. Shall we talk of the Golden Rock?”
“No, no,” she cried, with a shudder.
“I remember once,” he resumed slowly, “when on the sea—shall I ever feel the touch of the salt breeze again?—the look-out reported the sea-serpent ahead, and, sure enough, we saw the gleaming curves of his body. I recall well how we all grouped forward till the captain gruffly dusted us for a lot of swabs, though he himself had kept his eye glued to his glass. The sea-serpent proved to be a floating mast with a trailing mass of rope and a dead body caught in the raffle.”
Laura laughed hysterically.
“A pleasant story,” said Hume savagely.
“Man, I can’t think of a joke; my brain revolts from the effort. Why were serpents created footless, stealthy, lidless, implacable—the living embodiment of cunning, their very presence—” He stopped short, and the hairs of his moustache bristled. “It comes,” he whispered. “There! there!”