He moved his arms a little. They felt like lead, but unhurt. Then he realized that his legs were on fire. He tried to move them; everything went black again in a sudden agony of pain. The voice was still shrieking in his ears:
“There's a girl in the heart of Maryland
With a heart that belongs to me-e.”
But another voice could be heard, softer, talking endlessly in tender clear tones:
“An' he said they were goin' to take me way down south where there was a little house on the beach, all so warm an' quiet...”
The song of the man beside him rose to a tuneless shriek, like a phonograph running down:
“An' Mary-land was fairy-land
When she said that mine she'd be...”
Another voice broke in suddenly in short spurts of whining groans that formed themselves into fragments of drawn-out intricate swearing. And all the while the soft voice went on. Andrews strained his ears to hear it.
It soothed his pain as if some cool fragrant oil were being poured over his body.
“An' there'll be a garden full of flowers, roses an' hollyhocks, way down there in the south, an' it'll be so warm an' quiet, an' the sun'll shine all day, and the sky'll be so blue...”
Andrews felt his lips repeating the words like lips following a prayer.