Tristram closed his eyes. He tasted death. He knew the horror of suffocation—the pitiless night which swirled over him, choking him, stupefying him.
Twenty yards lower down the hut reappeared. Its roof was battered in. The clinging, piteous figure had vanished.
Tristram twisted Arabella's bridle about his arm. It was his last deliberate act. He was dimly conscious of movement, of being sucked against warm, heaving flanks, of a hand that closed down blackly on his will to live. He knew that he was letting go his hold—he was beaten. He felt himself go down—then one last thrill of consciousness. His feet jarred against something—he was being dragged—dragged over a soft spongy substance.
He tried to right himself—but instead stumbled—pitched headlong into oblivion.
CHAPTER XIV
RESURRECTION
"That reminds me of a story some one told me once," Mrs. Brabazone declared. "I think it was George——"
George, seated three places lower down on the opposite side of the table, looked up anxiously and, meeting his wife's eyes, signalled a denial. "Yes, I'm sure it was you, George. Anyhow, it's a very good story. It was about a Lancashire coal-heaver—or was it a cotton-spinner? What do they do in Lancashire? I never can remember. But I know they make a frightful lot of money, and are horribly extravagant." She considered a moment. "Yes—it is extravagant, not mean. I get so confused. And one day when he was dying——"
Some one laughed, and Mrs. Brabazone glanced up perplexedly. "My dear, that isn't the point—at least, I don't think so. George, do tell it. It's such a good story."
The Judge, usually the soul of courtesy, turned a deaf ear and fixed his attention with an expression of almost passionate interest on Colonel Armstrong, who was seated on Mrs. Boucicault's left. The Colonel was discussing the prospects of the rains, his manner beautifully Anglo-Saxon in its optimistic serenity.