The pain in Lavirotte's chest did not last long, but when it had
passed away he felt weak and dispirited. A while ago he had thought
how good it was to be here, remote from the bustle and noise of the
town below. Now he felt oppressed by the thought that he was feeble,
had suffered from some acute and paralysing pain, and was practically
out of the reach of human aid.
This tower seemed indeed fated to take a prominent if not a final part
in his career. He had, more than a year ago, narrowly escaped death in
the vault beneath. Was he now threatened with death in this loft
above? for he felt spent and broken, and as though the effort of
getting down once more would be more than he ever would accomplish. It
was plain to him something serious was the matter with him. Three or
four times before this he had felt the same pain, followed by the same
prostration of body and depression of mind. He had never consulted
anyone about it. If it was serious, let it kill him. If it was not
serious, why should he care?
Why should he care about anything now? Dora was dead and his life was
in ashes. True, he had not been as faithful to Dora as he might have
been, but then who was perfect? And he had meant to marry Dora; and he
would have married Dora only that Dora had died.
He was too weary to take off his clothes. It was better for him to lie
thus than to run the risk of again experiencing that terrible pain.
The lassitude now was tolerable, and gradually the despondency was
lifting. He would sleep, and upon waking should be refreshed. When it
was day, no doubt he would wake, or a little after day. There was no
great hurry. They were not going to bury Dora until noon; and he had
come a long way, was overwrought, ill, and might indulge himself in a
long, peaceful rest.
It was the beginning of autumn, and he did not need, while sleeping,
much, if any more covering. There was a rug on a chair hard by. He
would just take off his boots, draw that rug over him, and go to
sleep.
Lavirotte rose carefully from the couch, took off his boots, stretched
out his arm, and seized the rug, shook the dust out of it, and drawing
it up under his chin, sank back again upon the couch and was soon
asleep.
For a while he slept so soundly, so softly, one might have supposed he
was dead. He did not move a muscle, and his breathing was so quiet it
could not be heard by anyone standing near.
The hours went by, and still he slept calmly, dreamlessly. Towards
dawn he turned slightly on his left side, and then, as though by
magic, the vacant spaces of unconscious sleep became filled with
images, at first confused and incoherent, with no more rational
dependence upon one another than the inarticulate sounds produced by a
deaf mute and organised arbitrary speech.
First he was conscious of great peril, which threatened him, he knew
not from where. It was an old enemy, someone he had once wronged,
someone who had promised him forgiveness, and now withdrew that
promise. Was it a man or a nation, or some great law of nature, or
some element of the supernatural that he had once outraged and that
now threatened him, that now assailed him with fears, choked full of
horror? Choked--choked--choked full of horrors.
No, not choked full of horrors. Full of choking horrors. Full of
deprivation of breath. Full of rigidity of lung. Full of the smell of
stifling brass and unutterable pains of sulphureous obstruction.
This was better. This was an open prairie, and he, weary-limbed and
sodden with fatigue, having accomplished innumerable miles of travel,
had innumerable miles of travel still to accomplish through the rank,
tall, tangled grass that pressed against his steps, up to his knees,
and held back his feet as a shallow rapid might hold back the feet of
one standing in it. Overhead the sky was blue and pitiless; without a
cloud, without the faintest promise of rain, which would refresh and
cheer him. The grass at his feet was too bright for wholesomeness and
hurt his eyes, as the sun above his head was too bright for
wholesomeness and hurt his head, his neck, his back, seemed to parch
and dry up the very essence of his spirits.
It would be better if he could lie down; for, although the grass was
too green with light, it was softer than this toil forward, and it
would soothe the fiery heat of his muscles to stretch in delicious
ease, even under that fierce sun.
But he was powerless to do his will. He was powerless even to bend his
back; he was powerless to bend to one side or the other. In no way
could he alter the strain on the muscles of his legs. They burned him
as though they were of red-hot steel; and yet onward and onward he
must go, supported and projected by them.
It was not now leagues that threatened him ahead, but infinity. For
eternity he was destined to plod on over this fiercely hot, breathless
plain, with the current of those tangled grasses always against his
feet, on his head the furious heat of the sun, and in the muscles of
his legs the fire of hell.
Hell! Ah, yes! Now he knew all. This was his punishment for what he
had done.
But what had he done? There was the bitterness of this great
punishment. He did not know. But it was something so terrible that the
angels above durst not breathe it lest they might pollute Heaven, nor
the demons in hell utter even its name, lest the Plutonian fires might
be raised to rages such as the damned had never known.
What was this after all? A change in the aspect of affairs which a
while ago had seemed immutable, eternal. No longer was the plain a
solitude, yet still no human figure but his own was in view. Yet
he heard a sound behind him, and, turning, saw, a tall, lean,
hungry-looking dog behind him.
Any companionship seemed better than the solitude of the green plain,
the empty sky, and the pitiless sun.
The dog was coming after him faster than he was walking. The dog would
overtake him in time. No doubt the brute felt the loneliness as he
did, and yearned for companionship of any kind.
What was this? All at once the resistance to the progress of his feet
seemed to have broken down. All at once the fiery agony had left his
muscles. All at once the hurtful brightness of the green had deserted
the grass. All at once the mad fervour had been withdrawn from the
rays of the sun, and in its place had come a jocund, sprightly warmth,
which surrounded the body like a soothing vapour, and drew upwards
from the grasses healing balms.
The solitude of the prairie was broken by the presence of the dog. The
impediment in his progress had been laid. The fever had departed from
his body, and he felt refreshed, invigorated. Now he cared not how far
he had to journey forward. He had the companionship of the dog, the
vigour of youth, a soft and level way, and the freshness of an early
summer morning around him. Out of a life of hideous and useless labour
he had been lifted into a life of vernal joyousness. He did not care
now whether the toil of his march should finish with the day. In so
far as he was, he was absolutely happy, and when the dog overtook him,
and he could speak to and fondle it, he should desire no more.
He looked over his shoulder. The dog was still a long way in the rear,
but seemed to be overhauling him foot by foot.
He called to the brute. It did not bark or look up. It seemed to take
no notice of his voice, but kept on slowly, now diverging a little to
one side, now to the other, but mainly keeping in a right line with
him.
What was there about this dog which seemed, now that it was closer,
disconcerting?
The brute came forward, hanging its head low, and as he swayed out of
the right line of approach he snapped as though flies were attacking
him, although no flies were on the plain. Then there was something
wrong about his eyes and mouth. Although Lavirotte called him he did
not look up, and the jaws of his mouth were not closed, and the teeth
of his mouth were visible, and in the angles of the jaws there was
foam.
The brute was now within fifty yards of him, and just at the moment
when Lavirotte's uneasiness at the unusual appearance of the dog had
gained its height, something strange happened to the ground upon which
Lavirotte was walking. It grew soft, spongy, lutulent. His feet, which
a few moments before had been full of springy vigour, were now clogged
with the heavy mud into which, as he went onward, he at every step
sank more and more, until at last he found he could make no further
progress and was held immovably fixed.
Moment by moment he sank deeper. The mud now reached his knees, his
hips, his waist, his ribs. Only his head and shoulders rose above this
devouring quicksand. Then, as he believed all was lost, and when the
mud had reached his arm-pits, the dog overtook him, and moving slowly,
stood in front of him.
With a wild shriek Lavirotte thrust forth his arms and seized the huge
ears of the bloodhound, crying: "He is mad! The dog is mad! I know it.
We have always known this kind of thing, we Lavirottes."
The dog snapped at both his arms. With superhuman efforts, Lavirotte
avoided the fangs.
All at once, with a wild growl and incredible strength, the bloodhound
thrust his head forward and drove his long yellow fangs into
Lavirotte's chin.
The eyes of the man and the eyes of the beast were now fixed on one
another, and the eyes of the man saw that the eyes of the beast were
those of Eugene O'Donnell.
With a scream Lavirotte started to his feet--awake.
This was the morning of Dora's funeral.