The still, sultry heat was terrible, not a leaf moved outside, and the darkness came on more obscure than usual; for as Humphrey looked out of the window from time to time, to gaze along the forest arcade, there was not a firefly visible, and the heavy, oppressive state of the air seamed to announce a coming storm.
Dinny’s figure had long been invisible, but he made his presence known by crooning over snatches of the most depressing minor-keyed Irish melody he could recall; but after a time that ceased, and the silence grew heavy as the heat.
“How long have I been asleep?” he muttered, starting up and listening. “Dinny!”
No answer.
“Dinny! Hist! Are you asleep?”
He dare call no louder, but rose from the couch.
“Dennis Kelly, the traitor, has gone, Humphrey Armstrong!” cried a hoarse voice, and he felt himself driven back into the great tomb-like place.
“Commodore Junk!” cried Humphrey in his surprise.
“Yes, Commodore Junk. Hah! I have you. My prisoner once again.”
“Your prisoner! No, not if I die for it!” cried Humphrey, passionately; and he struggled to free himself from the tightening grasp.