Now the room had fallen into semi-darkness, for the oil had failed in the lamp, and there was only that dull-red line along the edge of the window-curtains. And there was silence, too, for all that words could say had been said already.
The minutes passed, but the man had ceased to count them. The hand that lay in his was growing cold, but the knowledge had ceased to concern him; the brain no longer registered the messages sent by the nerves, and he was conscious only of an immense weariness, of an overwhelming desire to sleep. The maiden Issa's hair lay within the hollow of his arm, a pool of rippled gold; it was like looking down into an enchanted well; the waters seem to rise and meet him. The glow at the curtain-edge grew stronger; now it was a lake of liquid fire into which he gazed.
The threshold of the door had warped and sprung, and through the crack crept a thin line of smoke; it raised itself sinuously, as does a snake; it darted its head from side to side, preparing to strike.
Descending the staircase, Constans saw that the time was growing perilously short. On three sides of them the buildings were burning, and Arcadia House itself was on fire at the southern wing. The hurricane, shifting back to the northwest, was at its wildest, and the air was full of ashes and incandescent sparks. As Constans and Esmay emerged from the shelter of the house, it seemed as though the universe itself was on fire. Could they ever hope to reach the river? His heart sank as he looked at that fiery rain through which they must pass. He turned to Esmay.
"It is the only way," he began, and then stopped, wondering that she should look so strangely upon him.
"I thought you dead," she answered, humbly. "It was the last thing I heard—the silver whistle and Nanna misunderstood my question."