He feared lest he should
become insensible, and so perhaps be suffocated. His arms were
entirely numbed; he could not feel that he was lying on them. Surely
Slimy's emissary would come before midnight.
"One, two, three, four--twelve!" How was it that e had lost all
count of the hours since eight o'clock? Whether that had been sleep
or insensibility, Waymark could not decide. Intensity of cold must
have brought back consciousness; his whole body seemed to be frozen;
his eyes ached insufferably. Continuous thought had somehow become
an impossibility; he knew that Ida was constantly in his mind, and
her image clear at times in the dark before him, but he could not
think about her as he wished and tried to do. Who was it that seemed
to come between her and him?--some one he knew, yet could not
identify. Then the hours sounded uncertainly; some he appeared to
have missed. There, at length, was seven. Why, this was morning; and
Slimy had promised that he should be set free before this. What was
it that tortured his struggling brain so? A thought he strove in
vain for a time to grasp. The meaning flashed upon him. By a great
effort he regained complete consciousness; mind alone seemed to be
left to him, his body was dead.
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