The Beetle | Page 9

was a satyr's smile, and which filled me with a sensation of shuddering repulsion.
'What a white skin you have,--how white! What would I not give for a skin as white as that,--ah yes!' He paused, devouring me with his glances; then continued. 'Go to the cupboard; you will find a cloak; put it on.'
I went to a cupboard which was in a corner of the room, his eyes following me as I moved. It was full of clothing,--garments which might have formed the stock-in-trade of a costumier whose speciality was providing costumes for masquerades. A long dark cloak hung on a peg. My hand moved towards it, apparently of its own volition. I put it on, its ample folds falling to my feet.
'In the other cupboard you will find meat, and bread, and wine. Eat and drink.'
On the opposite side of the room, near the head of his bed, there was a second cupboard. In this, upon a shelf, I found what looked like pressed beef, several round cakes of what tasted like rye bread, and some thin, sour wine, in a straw-covered flask. But I was in no mood to criticise; I crammed myself, I believe, like some famished wolf, he watching me, in silence, all the time. When I had done, which was when I had eaten and drunk as much as I could hold, there returned to his face that satyr's grin.
'I would that I could eat and drink like that,--ah yes!--Put back what is left.' I put it back,--which seemed an unnecessary exertion, there was so little to put. 'Look me in the face.'
I looked him in the face,--and immediately became conscious, as I did so, that something was going from me,--the capacity, as it were, to be myself. His eyes grew larger and larger, till they seemed to fill all space--till I became lost in their immensity. He moved his hand, doing something to me, I know not what, as it passed through the air--cutting the solid ground from underneath my feet, so that I fell headlong to the ground. Where I fell, there I lay, like a log.
And the light went out.
CHAPTER IV
A LONELY VIGIL
I knew that the light went out. For not the least singular, nor, indeed, the least distressing part of my condition was the fact that, to the best of my knowledge and belief, I never once lost consciousness during the long hours which followed. I was aware of the extinction of the lamp, and of the black darkness which ensued. I heard a rustling sound, as if the man in the bed was settling himself between the sheets. Then all was still. And throughout that interminable night I remained, my brain awake, my body dead, waiting, watching, for the day. What had happened to me I could not guess. That I probably wore some of the external evidences of death my instinct told me,--I knew I did. Paradoxical though it may sound, I felt as a man might feel who had actually died,--as, in moments of speculation, in the days gone by, I had imagined it as quite possible that he would feel. It is very far from certain that feeling necessarily expires with what we call life. I continually asked myself if I could be dead,--the inquiry pressed itself on me with awful iteration. Does the body die, and the brain--the I, the ego--still live on? God only knows. But, then! the agony of the thought.
The hours passed. By slow degrees, the silence was eclipsed. Sounds of traffic, of hurrying footsteps,--life!--were ushers of the morn. Outside the window sparrows twittered,--a cat mewed, a dog barked--there was the clatter of a milk can. Shafts of light stole past the blind, increasing in intensity. It still rained, now and again it pattered against the pane. The wind must have shifted, because, for the first time, there came, on a sudden, the clang of a distant clock striking the hour,--seven. Then, with the interval of a lifetime between each chiming, eight,--nine,--ten.
So far, in the room itself there had not been a sound. When the clock had struck ten, as it seemed to me, years ago, there came a rustling noise, from the direction of the bed. Feet stepped upon the floor,--moving towards where I was lying. It was, of course, now broad day, and I, presently, perceived that a figure, clad in some queer coloured garment, was standing at my side, looking down at me. It stooped, then knelt. My only covering was unceremoniously thrown from off me, so that I lay there in my nakedness. Fingers prodded me then and there, as if I had been some beast ready for the butcher's stall. A face looked into mine, and, in front of me, were those dreadful eyes. Then, whether I was