“Well,—what?”
“That candle is going out,—we’ll be in the dark”—he grasped the other’s arm—“in the dark, and now I’m afraid again. Don’t leave me here! It would be an awful death to die. Here’s that thing now on the bed behind me. It’s trying to get around in front where I’ll have to see it—get another candle. No—don’t leave me,—this one will go out while you’re gone.” All his strength went into the grip on Follett’s arm. The candle was sputtering in its pool of grease.
“There, it’s gone—now don’t, don’t leave me. It’s trying to crawl over me—I smell the blood—”
“Well—lie down there—it serves you right. There—stop it—I’ll stay with you.”
Until dawn Follett sat by the bunk, submitting his arm to the other’s frenzied grip. From time to time he somewhat awkwardly uttered little words that were meant to be soothing, as he would have done to a frightened child.
When morning brought the gray light into the little room, the haunted man fell into a doze, and Follett, gently unclasping the hands from his arm, arose and went softly out. He was cramped from sitting still so long, and chilled, and his arm hurt where the other had gripped it. He pulled back the blue woollen sleeve and saw above his wrist livid marks where the nails had sunk into his flesh.
Then out of the room back of him came a sharp cry, as from one who had awakened from a dream of terror. He stepped to the door again and looked in.
“There now—don’t be scared any more. The daylight has come; it’s all right—all right—go to sleep now—”
He stood listening until the man he had come to kill was again quiet. Then he went outside and over to the creek back of the willows to bathe in the fresh running water.