“Possibly,” said Oliver, and seating himself they talked at intervals for hours in the tomb-like silence of the awful place, till a peculiar drowsy feeling stole over Oliver, and he started back into wakefulness with a shudder of horror, for it suddenly struck him that he was beginning to be influenced by some mephitic gas once more, such as had affected them along the line of the mist at the foot of the mountain.
“Smith!” he cried excitedly, “do you feel sleepy?”
A low deep breathing was the only reply.
“Smith! wake up!” he cried; but there was a want of energy in his words, and five minutes after his efforts had grown feeble in the extreme. In another, he too had succumbed, not to a dangerous soporific vapour, but to the weariness produced by long exertion, and slept as soundly as his companion, and as if there was nothing whatever to fear.
Chapter Forty Three.
Smith has a Startler.
Oliver Lane was dreaming of pleasant gushing streams, in which swam fish of glistening colours, deep down in the soft shades, when the sun appeared to come out suddenly and dazzle his eyes, so that he could not bear it, and he sprang up to find Mr Rimmer leaning over him, holding a lantern.
“That’s better, sir!” he cried. “I was beginning to be afraid that you had breathed bad air.”