It was as if every nerve had been sharpened and his senses made more acute.
The familiar ammoniacal odour known as “stables” stole in from the horses across the courtyard; he could hear stridulous crickets making their sharp, shrill, tooth-comb sounds in every direction; a moth was wearing out its wings against the ceiling; and through the sitting-room from the passage outside came the heavy breathing of the men, who were quite content with the mat upon the floor.
Then there were the sentries’ steps, and the fidgety movements of the horses, and the heat, and the absence of sleep, and the flickering of the lightning, and the distant mutterings of the storm, which came no nearer.
All together, and separately, every one of these trifles went on magnifying itself, till Dick felt as if he must get up and dress, so as to go out into the veranda and lie down to sleep there.
Then, all at once—nothingness, for a deep sleep had come at last.
Chapter XXVI.
A Smell of Oil.
“What’s that?”
The question was not uttered aloud, but said mentally, as Richard Darrell suddenly unclosed his eyes and lay gazing in the direction of the window, seeing nothing, for all was pitchy dark. Cut there was the muttering of the distant thunder, the chirping of night insects, and the rustling about of the great moth against the ceiling.
What did it mean? Why should he have awakened so suddenly? There must have been a reason, and the question, “What’s that?” seemed to be ringing in his ears.