Page:Weird Tales Volume 4 Number 2 (1924-05-07).djvu/186

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till after long hours—days, perhaps—of torture, Alice spoke, her voice thick and blurred, no more than a whisper.

"Peter?"

"Yes?" and my own voice sounded strange and far-off in my ears.

"Dear, I don't believe I'll be conscious much longer—will you kiss me once more before I go—my love?"

Silently I bent and kissed her, and she clung to me, her arms about my neck, and I kissed her again and again, and stroked her hair.

"Sweetheart," she whispered, "do something for me? Don't turn the light on again. People who die—of thirst—aren't pleasant—to look at—they say. And I'd—like—you—to remember me—as—I used—to be. Promise—Honey?"

For answer I lifted the lamp and broke the glass against the floor. She heard the crackle and understood. I felt her arms tighten about my neck—such a weak little clasp!—and she whispered:

"Thank—you—Dear!"

And once more the dark and the silence settled over us, and once more the Horror closed down.

RESENTLY she grew delirious, and I was sick to the very depths of my soul—her raving, struggles, shrieks, blasphemies—worse than all, her mad croaking laughter—at last she was too weak to struggle, and lay quiet.

Side by side we lay, and the endless round of the dragging hours rolled over us as we waited the inevitable end. Alice was helpless, and I in little better case. Weak with hunger, tortured by the agonies of thirst, I felt my dry tongue, rough and harsh, swelling in my mouth, pressing against my teeth, forcing my mouth open. Alice began to moan softly. I clasped her hand, and the answering pressure told me that she was still conscious—could still suffer. Once more I cursed the fiend who so tortured her—I was growing light-headed—I saw visions of brooks, of lakes, of green andgrassy meadows—water, water! And ever that low moaning at my side!

I thought of rain—I heard it pattering on the roof—no; delirium!—of the storm through which we had driven—my mind reeled to the pump I had seen in the kitchen above us—water, water! And ever that horrible moan brought me back to our prison—our tomb!

I laid my hand on Alice's head, and felt it rocking from side to side—I passed my hand gently, caressingly, over her face—and shuddered—the cracked lips were drawn back from the teeth and I touched the harsh, swollen tongue protruding from her mouth! I clasped her hand, but no answering pressure came. Her moaning had died to a faint whimper, heartrending in its utter helplessness. Whimper—whimper—whimper! It beat on my brain like the roar of the surf on rocky shores—it grew and swelled and reverberated in my ears—I tried to scream,