| 876 | 877 | 878 | 879 | 880 |
| 1 | 236 | 472 | 708 | 944 |
|
cries, who had swarmed there, had given place to a black and sullen
void.
All were gone.
The madness of anxiety took possession of him. What did this mean? What
had happened? Was no one left? Could it be that life had crumbled away
behind him? What had happened to them all? Good heavens! Then he rushed
like a tempest against the house. He struck the small door, the gate,
the windows, the window-shutters, the walls, with fists and feet,
furious with terror and agony of mind.
He called Nicless, Govicum, Fibi, Vinos, Ursus, Homo. He tried every
shout and every sound against this wall. At times he waited and
listened; but the house remained mute and dead. Then, exasperated, he
began again with blows, shouts, and repeated knockings, re-echoed all
around. It might have been thunder trying to awake the grave.
There is a certain stage of fright in which a man becomes terrible. He
who fears everything fears nothing. He would strike the Sphynx. He
defies the Unknown.
Gwynplaine renewed the noise in every possible form--stopping, resuming,
unwearying in the shouts and appeals by which he assailed the tragic
silence. He called a thousand times on the names of those who should
have been there. He shrieked out every name except that of Dea--a
precaution of which he could not have explained the reason himself, but
878
Page
Quick Jump
|