Cleves stirred on the lounge beside Tressa. Again and again he had thought that she was asleep for her head had fallen back against the cushions, and she lay very still. But always, when he leaned nearer to peer down at her, he saw her eyes open, and fixed intently upon the bolted door.
His pistol, which still rested on his knee, was pointed across the room, toward the door. Once he reminded her in a whisper that she was unarmed and that it might be as well for her to go and get her pistol. But she murmured that she was sufficiently equipped; and, in spite of himself, he shivered as he glanced down at her frail and empty hands.
It was some time between three and half-past, he judged, when a sudden movement of the girl brought him upright on his seat, quivering with excitement.
“Mr. Cleves!”
“Yes?”
“The Sorcerers!”
“Where? Outside the door?”
“Oh, my God,” she murmured, “they are after my mind again! Their fingers are groping to seize my brain and get possession of it!”
“What!” he stammered, horrified.
“Here—in the dark,” she whispered—“and I feel their fingers caressing me—searching—moving stealthily to surprise and grasp my thoughts.... I know what they are doing.... I am resisting.... I am fighting—fighting!”