The Day of Resis

by Lillian Frances Mentor

They had now became separated too, and each of the zebra was trying to pick out a path for itself. But it was dreadful, for the zebras were now also wandering on from a mere sense of habit, and not because they had any longer any hope of escaping. Their heads dropped until their noses almost touched the ash-covered ground. Their eyelids seemed frozen in a cramped position over the eyes and the balls of their eyes looked out like pieces of glass which had been rubbed with sand paper. There was no longer any sight in those eyes; there could not be after being exposed to the beating ashes and dust as long as they had. The legs of the poor beasts were raw to the knees, but still they plodded through the ashes which must have set them crazy with pain, if they too had not lost all sense of pain.

Such dreadful sufferings could not help but make one helplessly mad. It was a hell, an awful, reason-destroying hell, but a merciful hell in a way, for although it lacerated the poor, tortured bodies of its victims, it at the same time destroyed all consciousness of their suffering. So like poor, undying spirits in a helpless state of painless suffering, if such a thing could be, the zebras wandered on, bearing the almost lifeless bodies of the women.

Suddenly Enola half roused herself and opened her swollen eyes. Only for a moment, however, for they soon closed again and she lapsed into that comatose state, and then had dropped to the zebra’s neck as before. But again the eyes half opened and this time she showed signs of returning consciousness.

But the eyes closed again for a moment and then she starts as if having been struck; no, she had not been mistaken, there it was, a light burning through the darkness. Could she call for help? Her throat was dry and parched; she had not tried to make a sound in hours, days it seemed to her, but she must try now; so opening the baked lips she made an effort, but it was useless. She could not articulate. But the zebras were moving slowly toward the light and they might see her yet. It must be the villa and they were safe at last. She turned to point the light out to her companions, but they are gone. She looked again, for just at that moment, the flash of light broke through the gloom. But no, her companions were no longer with her. Had they found their way to a place of safety and had she been lost in the darkness, or had they been lost? She tried to remember when she last saw them, but she could not. She had a faint recollection of their having all been together sometime during this awful night, or, was it night? She could not say. It might have been years ago, so indefinite had grown the flight of time. She again turned toward the light; yes, it was still there, and then she tried to turn the head of her zebra towards the spot. Her arm was stiff and she could hardly move, but she managed to slap the zebra on the side of the neck, but he did not turn. He still wandered on in that aimless way, seeming to heed nothing.

Oh, this was fearful. She tried again and again but the only response the poor beast made, was to drop dead in his tracks. She felt him giving way under her and made a last effort to save herself, but too late; the beast caught her limbs as he fell and half burying her in the soft ashes, held her fast. She tried hard and wrenched the tender limbs until torn and bleeding, but to no purpose; she was held as secure as if tied to the side of the beast. She was too exhausted to make much of an effort, and the little she had made, had caused her to lose consciousness for the moment.

The moments flew by but all unknown to the poor, insensible girl and death seemed inevitable. There was no hope now, there could be none, unless it came from where that mocking light still gleamed through the darkness. But it would have been as helpful to the dying woman had it been ten miles away. It was better then, that the poor wanderer should never again wake to consciousness, for she would be saved the helpless suffering caused by knowing that she was near help and yet was beyond it.

The ashes still fell in torrents, the humid air was growing more intolerable each moment with the hot steam and dust, and the blackness had grown more intense. Yes, it could be felt, and here in the midst of all its hellish night, lay Enola dying.

But no, what is that huge mass which has almost tramped on her, but which stops just in time? It is Gip.

She tried hard and wrenched her limbs until torn and bleeding, but to no purpose.—Page [338].