“Why, you blessed little thing, I can take care of myself. How funny of you, when I am trying to plan how best to look out for you!”
But her face remained pale and concerned, and she rested her left hand more firmly on his shoulder.
“I wish to remain awake with you,” she said. “Because I myself don’t fully understand this”—she looked at the knife in her palm, then down at the shroud. “It is going to be a strange night for us,” she sighed. “Let us sit together here on the lounge where I can face that bolted door. And if you are willing, I am going to turn out the lights——” She suddenly bent forward and switched them off—“because I must keep my mind on guard.”
“Why do you do that?” he asked, “you can’t see the door, now.”
“Let me help you in my own way,” she whispered. “I—I am very deeply disturbed, and very, very angry. I do not understand this new menace. Yezidee that I am, I do not understand what kind of danger threatens you through your loyalty to me.”
She drew him forward, and he opened his mouth to remonstrate, to laugh; but as he turned, his foot touched the shroud, and an uncontrollable shiver passed over him.
They went close together, across the dim room to the lounge, and seated themselves. Enough light from Madison Avenue made objects in the room barely discernible.
Sounds from the street below became rarer as the hours wore away. The iron jar of trams, the rattle of vehicles, the harsh warning of taxicabs broke the stillness at longer and longer intervals, until, save only for that immense and ceaseless vibration of the monstrous iron city under the foggy stars, scarcely a sound stirred the silence.
The half-hour had struck long ago on the bell of the little clock. Now the clear bell sounded three times.