The horror of this piece of perversity got me.
“Lawrence!” I exclaimed. “You don’t mean it!”
“Yes,” he answered, in that new tone, so flat and spiritless. “I sank into something—soft.... Pedro’s laugh sounded far away, and he closed up the grave—with the stone.
“My throat was in a vice. Couldn’t make a sound. Tried to gather strength for one big scream—then something somewhere in me snapped. ‘Tsing!’ it went, soft and little.
“Don’t know how long I was there. It seemed an eternity. I lived on—with the dead man—and crawling things. I don’t know. There may have been nothing at all. At last I saw a rift above—the night sky—and Pedro reached down to pull me out.
“When he came the next afternoon I told him I must rest for several days. My nerves were bad. All night I lay awake—and thought—and planned. At daybreak I fell asleep. In the afternoon I went to Boston.
“Three days later, back in Land’s End, I settled my accounts. All but one. Told the neighbors I was leaving for New York next day. Gave instructions to have my things packed and shipped to me there.
“Pedro came as usual in the afternoon. I worked as though nothing had happened. He got tired and lay on the floor. I boiled some water for tea. Very, very carefully I made that tea.
“‘What kind of tea is this?’ Pedro asked. ‘It tastes so queer.’