I decided that I must.
There was a switch attached to a long cord over my bed. I placed it under my pillow. I turned the key and took it purposely from the key-hole, took the pistol in my hand, and putting out the light lay down on the bed.
I listened to my heart like a muffled drum within me, “beating its funeral march to the grave.”
And then the one thing I had not contemplated happened. I slept.
I awoke dumb with horror and the certainty that someone was in the room with me; but I had heard nothing, and there was no sound but the “funeral march” within me, beating time.
I do not know how long I listened, but at last came the unmistakable gentle sound of fingers sweeping along the wall. It is a sound that would wake no sleeper. But I can imagine no sound more terrifying to one listening in the dark.
In a spasm of terror I pressed the switch and sat up, covering Jakoub with the revolver. He stood by the wall near the end of my bed. One hand was in the bosom of his galabieh. He was not smiling, but his lips were drawn back and his teeth bared in a kind of snarl, the reaction of a man startled and disconcerted by sudden fright. Fear was like a third party between us.
“Put your weapon on the table or I’ll fire.”
I had not meant to speak, and my own words startled me.
Jakoub hesitated. The revolver was not cocked and I began to pull the trigger.