"My hands, my hands alone! Nothing comes up to the grip of my hands!"
He went to bed again. Darkness and silence, once more. And, once more, his fear. . . .
The village clock struck twelve. . . .
Lupin thought of the foul monster who, outside, at a hundred yards, at fifty yards from where he lay, was trying the sharp point of his dagger:
"Let him come, let him come?" whispered Lupin, shuddering. "Then the ghosts will vanish. . . ."
One o'clock, in the village. . . .
And minutes passed, endless minutes, minutes of fever and anguish. . . . Beads of perspiration stood at the roots of his hair and trickled down his forehead; and he felt as though his whole frame were bathed in a sweat of blood. . . .
Two o'clock. . . .