Merton sat suddenly upright.
"You were quite right, Mrs. Ellison. I heard someone call then. Who can it be?"
Again they listened, this time with more success. It was the voice of a man in deadly terror, and it came from the hut opposite. Ellison sprang to his feet.
"Murkard!" he cried. "I must go to him."
He dashed across the veranda and down the path to the hut. On the threshold, and before opening the door, he paused to light a match. When he entered, the room was in total darkness. He knew a candle stood on the table near the door, and having found it, he lit it; then holding it aloft, he looked about him. The bed was disordered, half the clothes were lying on the floor. A moment later he sighted the man of whom he was in search. He was crouched in the furthest corner, staring wildly before him. His long legs were drawn up close to his chin—his broad shoulders seemed to overlap his body. But his eyes were his chief horror; they seemed to be starting from their sockets. Streams of perspiration—the perspiration of living fear—rolled down his cheeks, and every now and then he uttered a cry of abject terror.
"Hold me back—hold me back!" he yelled. "I'm falling—falling—falling! Is there no help—my God—no help! Help! Help! Help!"
Ellison put down the candle and ran towards him.
"Murkard, what on earth does this mean? Pull yourself together! You're all right!"
But the man took no notice. He only drew himself further into his corner and clutched at the woodwork of the wall.
"Don't come near me," he cried; "for pity's sake, don't come near me! You're shaking me, you're loosening my hold, and I shall fall!" His voice went up to a shriek again. "I shall fall! I'm falling, falling, falling! Help! Help! Help!"