THE LIGHT THAT FAILED
The suspense was worse than any outcome could be, and Hervey, in another
impulse of desperation, took a step to the right, then quickly another
to the left. This ruse brought the two face to face. And in a flash
Hervey realized that he had little to fear from one who had tried so
desperately to escape his notice.
The figure was that of a young man, his raiment torn and disordered and
utterly drenched. He wore a plaid cap, which being pulled down over his
ears by reason of the wind, gave him an appearance of toughness which
his first words belied.
"You needn't be afraid," he said.
"I'm not afraid," said Hervey. "Who are you?"
"Did you hear some one scream?" the stranger asked.
"Scream? No. It was the wind, I guess. Are you lost, or what?"
"I want to get out of here, that's all," the young man said. "This place
is full of children screaming. Did you ever kill anybody?"
"No," said Hervey, somewhat agitated.
The stranger placed a trembling hand on Hervey's shoulder. "Do you know
a person can scream after he's dead?" he said.
"I don't know," said Hervey, somewhat alarmed and not knowing what to
say. "Anyway, I have to hurry; it's up to me to save some people's
lives. There's a bridge washed away along the road."
He did not wait longer to talk with this singular stranger, but thoughts
of the encounter lingered in his mind, particularly the young fellow's
speech about dead people and children screaming. As he hurried on,
Hervey concluded that the stranger was demented and had probably
wandered away from some village in the neighborhood. He had reason later
to recall this encounter, but he soon forgot it in the more urgent
matter of reaching the road.
He had now about half a mile of level country to traverse, consisting
of fields separated by stone walls. The land was soggy, and here and
there in the lower places were areas of water. These he would not take
the time to go around, but plunged through them, often going knee deep
into the marshy bottom. It was sometimes with difficulty that he was
able to extricate his leg from these soggy entanglements.
But he no longer needed the uncertain outline of that black mass amid
the surrounding blackness to guide him, for now the cheerful lights of
an isolated house upon the road shone in the distance. There was the
road, sure enough, though he could not see it.
"That's what Slady calls deduction," he panted, as he trudged on,
running when he could, and dragging his heavy, mud-bedraggled feet out
of the mire every dozen steps or so. Over a stone wall he went and
scrambled to his feet and hastened on.
The lights in the house cheered and guided him and he made straight for
this indubitable beacon. "Mountains are all--all right," he panted, "but
kerosene lamps--for--for--mine. I hope that--bunch--doesn't go to--bed."
His heart was pounding and he had a cruel stitch in his side from running,
which pained him excruciatingly when he ran fast. He tried scout pace
but it didn't work; he was not much of a hand for that kind of thing.
"It's--it's--all--right when--you're running through--the--handbook,"
he said, "but--but...."
Over another stone wall he went, tearing a great gash in his trousers,
exposing the limb to rain and wind. The ground was better for a space
and he ran desperately. Every breath he drew pained him, now and again
he staggered slightly, but he kept his feet and plunged frantically on.
Then one of the lights in the house went out. Then another. There was
only one now. "That's--that's--what--it means for--for--people to--to go
to--to bed early," he panted with difficulty. "I--I always--said----" He
had not the breath to finish, but it is undoubtedly true that he had
always been a staunch advocate of remaining up all night.
He fixed his eyes upon the one remaining light and ran with utter
desperation. His breathing was spasmodic, he reeled, pulled himself
together by sheer will, and stumbled on. On the next stone wall he made
a momentary concession to his exhaustion and paused just a moment,
holding his aching side.
Then he was off again, running like mad. The single little light seemed
twinkling and hazy and he brushed his streaming face with his sleeve so
that he might see it the more clearly. But it looked dull, more like a
little patch of brightness than a shining light. Either it was failing,
or he was.
He had to hold his stinging side and gulp for every breath he drew, but
he ran with all his might and main. He was too spent and dizzy to keep
his direction without that distant light, and he knew it. He was not Tom
Slade to be sure of himself in complete darkness. He was giddy--on the
verge of collapse. The bee-line of his course loosened and became
erratic. But if his legs were weakening his will was strong, and he
staggered, reeled, ran.
On, on, on, he sped, falling forward now, rather than running, but
keeping his feet by the sheer power of his will. His heart seemed up in
his mouth and choking him. With one hand he grasped the flying shred of
his torn trousers and tried to wipe the blood from the cut in his leg.
Thus for just a second his progress was impeded.
That was the last straw. The trifling movement lost him his balance, his
exhausted and convulsed body went round like a top and he lay breathing
in little jerks on the swampy ground.
One second. Two seconds. Three seconds. In another five seconds he would
rise. He raised himself on one trembling arm and looked about. He
brushed his soaking hair back from his eyes and looked again.
"Where--what--where--is--it--anyway?" he panted. He did not know which
direction was north or south or east or west. He only knew that a dagger
was sticking in his side and that he could not rise....
Yes, he could. He pulled himself together, rested a moment on his knees,
staggered to his feet and looked around.
"Where--where--th--the dickens--is north?"
He turned and looked around. He looked around the other way. Nothing but
desolation and darkness. He thought of what Tom had told him and,
closing his eyes, opened them suddenly. The mountain must have been too
near to show in outline now; it had probably melted into the general
landscape. There was just an even, solid blackness all about him. The
wind moaned, and somewhere, high and far off, he heard the screech of an
eagle. But at least the rain did not assail him as it had done. This,
however, was small comfort. He had lost, _failed_, and he knew it.
In pitiable despair, in the anguish of defeat, he looked about him again
in every direction, as if to beseech the angry night to give him back
his one little beacon, and let him only save those people if he died for
it.
But there was no light anywhere. It had gone out.