Page:Frank Owen - Rare Earth, 1931.djvu/91

 that engulfed him were frightful. The blackness was stifling, it caught in his throat, choking him. He could not breathe. His forehead was hot but beads of cold perspiration stood out upon it. At that moment he felt as though he were going out of his mind. He had not the strength to face the future. He could face war with a smile but that impenetrable endless blackness made him cringe. It held a sinister menace.

"It isn't so much that I can't sleep," he moaned, "as that I can't wake up. Oh, to be able to see again!"

In despair he rose to his feet and groped about in the darkness until he found his clothes. His hands shook like those of an old man as he dressed. Then slowly he mounted the stairs to the attic. He threw open the window and rested his burning forehead upon the sill. The cool night air brushed against his cheek fragrant with the odors of sweetsmelling trees and flowers. But even in the attic that night he could find no rest. If only he could escape from that terrible blackness.