A dog howled dismally somewhere at the back. The men had told me that no sound could be heard beyond those walls, yet had I not heard Sylvia’s shrieks? If I had heard them, then she could also hear me!
I shouted her name—shouted as loud as I could. But my voice in that small room somehow seemed dulled and drowned.
“Sylvia,” I shouted, “I am here! I—Owen Biddulph! Where are you?”
But there was no response. That horrible snake rose erect, looking at me with its never-wavering gaze. I saw the pointed tongue darting from its mouth. There—before me—soon to be released, was Death in reptile form—Death the most revolting and most terrible.
That silence appalled me. Sylvia had not replied! Was she already dead—stricken down by the fatal fang?
I called again: “Sylvia! Sylvia!”
But there came no answer. I set my teeth, and struggled to free myself until the veins in my forehead were knotted and my bonds cut into the flesh. But, alas! I was held as in the tentacles of an octopus. Every limb was gripped, so that already a numbness had overspread them, while my senses were frozen with horror.
Suddenly the lamp failed and died out, and the room was plunged in darkness, save for the zone of light shed by the unflickering flame of the candle. And there lay the weird and horrible reptile coiled, awaiting its release.
It seemed to watch the lessening candle, just as I myself watched it.