He could think of that, and of the amethystine water which ran on through what was evidently a deep channel, into the far depths of the cave, along which, in imagination, he followed it on and on right into the very bowels of the earth, a long, strange journey of curve and zig-zag, with the water ever rushing and gurgling on, and the noise growing fainter and fainter till it was just a whisper, then the merest breath, and then utter darkness and utter silence.
The excitement and exhaustion of the past night were playing their part now, and Harry Vine lay utterly unconscious of everything around.
Chapter Forty Five.
The Horror in the Zorn.
“Yes! What is it? Aunt Marguerite ill?”
Harry Vine started up, listening.
“Did any one call?”
There was no reply, and he sat there listening, still with the impression strong upon him that he had heard someone knock at his bedroom door and call him by name.