The Lost World Classics - Ultimate Collection - Жюль Верн

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afloat upon the breast of some still and hidden woodland pool; as though I were a little wind dancing among the mountain tops; a mist whirling down a quiet glen; a shimmering lance of the aurora pulsing in the high solitudes.

      “And there was music — strange and wondrous music and terrible, but not terrible to me — who was part of it. Vast chords and singing themes that rang like clusters of little swinging stars and harmonies that were like the very voice of infinite law resolving within itself all discords. And all — all — passionless, yet — rapturous.

      “Out of the Thing that held me, out from its fires pulsed vitality — a flood of inhuman energy in which I was bathed. And it was as though this energy were — reassembling me, fitting me even closer to the elemental things, changing me fully into them.

      “I felt the little tendrils touching, caressing — then came the shots. Awakening was — dreadful, a struggling back from drowning. I saw Martin — blasted. I drove the — the spell away from me, tore it away.

      “And, O Walter — Dick — it hurt — it hurt — and for a breath before I ran to him it was like — like coming from a world in which there was no disorder, no sorrow, no doubts, a rhythmic, harmonious world of light and music, into — into a world that was like a black and dirty kitchen.

      “And it’s there,” her voice rose, hysterically. “It’s still within me — whispering, whispering; urging me away from you, from Martin, from every human thing; bidding me give myself up, surrender my humanity.

      “Its seal,” she sobbed. “No — HIS seal! An alien consciousness sealed within me, that tries to make the human me a slave — that waits to overcome my will — and if I surrender gives me freedom, an incredible freedom — but makes me, being still human, a — monster.”

      She hid her face in her hands, quivering.

      “If I could sleep,” she wailed. “But I’m afraid to sleep. I think I shall never sleep again. For sleeping how do I know what I may be when I wake?”

      I caught Drake’s eye; he nodded. I slipped my hand down into the medicine-case, brought forth a certain potent and tasteless combination of drugs which I carry upon explorations.

      I dropped a little into her cup, then held it to her lips. Like a child, unthinking, she obeyed and drank.

      “But I’ll not surrender.” Her eyes were tragic. “Never think it! I can win — don’t you know I can?”

      “Win?” Drake dropped down beside her, drew her toward him. “Bravest girl I’ve known — of course you’ll win. And remember this — nine-tenths of what you’re thinking now is purely over-wrought nerves and weariness. You’ll win — and we’ll win, never doubt it.”

      “I don’t,” she said. “I know it — oh, it will be hard — but I will — I will —”

      Chapter XV.

       The House of Norhala

       Table of Contents

      Her eyes closed, her body relaxed; the potion had done its work quickly. We laid her beside Ventnor on the pile of silken stuffs, covered them both with a fold, then looked at each other long and silently — and I wondered whether my face was as grim and drawn as his.

      “It appears,” he said at last, curtly, “that it’s up to you and me for powwow quick. I hope you’re not sleepy.”

      “I am not,” I answered as curtly; the edge of nerves in his manner of questioning doing nothing to soothe my own, “and even if I were I would hardly expect to put all the burden of the present problem upon you by going to sleep.”

      “For God’s sake don’t be a prima donna,” he flared up. “I meant no offense.”

      “I’m sorry, Dick,” I said. “We’re both a little jumpy, I guess.” He nodded; gripped my hand.

      “It wouldn’t be so bad,” he muttered, “if all four of us were all right. But Ventnor’s down and out, and God alone knows for how long. And Ruth — has all the trouble we have and some special ones of her own. I’ve an idea”— he hesitated —“an idea that there was no exaggeration in that story she told — an idea that if anything she underplayed it.”

      “I, too,” I replied somberly. “And to me it is the most hideous phase of this whole situation — and for reasons not all connected with Ruth,” I added.

      “Hideous!” he repeated. “Unthinkable — yet all this is unthinkable. And still — it is! And Ventnor — coming back — that way. Like a lost soul finding voice.

      “Was it raving, Goodwin? Or could he have been — how was it he put it — in touch with these Things and their purpose? Was that message — truth?”

      “Ask yourself that question,” I said. “Man — you know it was truth. Had not inklings of it come to you even before he spoke? They had to me. His message was but an interpretation, a synthesis of facts I, for one, lacked the courage to admit.”

      “I, too,” he nodded. “But he went further than that. What did he mean by the Keeper of the Cones — and that the Things — were vulnerable under the same law that orders us? And why did he command us to go back to the city? How could he know — how could he?”

      “There’s nothing inexplicable in that, at any rate,” I answered. “Abnormal sensitivity of perception due to the cutting off of all sensual impressions. There’s nothing uncommon in that. You have its most familiar form in the sensitivity of the blind. You’ve watched the same thing at work in certain forms of hypnotic experimentation, haven’t you?

      “Through the operation of entirely understandable causes the mind gains the power to react to vibrations that normally pass unperceived; is able to project itself through this keying up of perception into a wider area of consciousness than the normal. Just as in certain diseases of the ear the sufferer, though deaf to sounds within the average range of hearing, is fully aware of sound vibrations far above and far below those the healthy ear registers.”

      “I know,” he said. “I don’t need to be convinced. But we accept these things in theory — and when we get up against them for ourselves we doubt.

      “How many people are there in Christendom, do you think, who believe that the Saviour ascended from the dead, but who if they saw it today would insist upon medical inspection, doctor’s certificates, a clinic, and even after that render a Scotch verdict? I’m not speaking irreverently — I’m just stating a fact.”

      Suddenly he moved away from me, strode over to the curtained oval through which Norhala had gone.

      “Dick,” I cried, following him hastily, “where are you going? What are you going to do?”

      “I’m going after Norhala,” he answered. “I’m going to have a showdown with her or know the reason why.”

      “Drake,” I cried again, aghast, “don’t make the mistake Ventnor did. That’s not the way to win through. Don’t — I beg you, don’t.”

      “You’re wrong,” he answered stubbornly. “I’m going to get her. She’s got to talk.”

      He thrust out a hand to the curtains. Before he could touch them, they were parted. Out from between them slithered the black eunuch. He stood motionless, regarding us; in the ink-black eyes a red flame of hatred. I pushed myself between him and Drake.

      “Where is your mistress, Yuruk?” I asked.

      “The goddess has gone,” he replied sullenly.

      “Gone?” I said suspiciously, for certainly Norhala had not passed us. “Where?”

      “Who shall question the goddess?” he asked. “She comes and she goes as she pleases.”

      I

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