A minute later a rustling sound as of some one stealing away.
Volume Two—Chapter Fourteen.
“What Have! Done?”
“Where am I?”
No answer. All was pitchy dark, but a pleasant, cool air fanned the speaker’s burning brow.
“Moredock! Are you asleep? The light’s out. What’s the matter? What’s this cloth about my legs?”
There was a rustling sound as Horace North rose to his feet, dragged a fallen surplice from his feet, and began to feel about him in a confused way.
But that was a wall, not the ends of coffins; that was an overturned table, not the stone slab with its hideous burden; and that—