sweat. The real himself sank into seas of darkness from which
convulsive, tearing shudders, less and less frequent, dragged him, with
throbbing heart and starting eyes, back to the surface.

His bandage had slipped off. He held it tight between his hands. He
was too numb and stupefied even to think of Francey, but there was
magic in that dirty, blood-stained handkerchief. It might have been a
saint's relic, or a Red Indian's totem, preserving him from evil. He
knew nothing about saints or totems, but he knew that Francey was good
and stronger than any of them.

Downstairs the silence remained unbroken. It was an aghast silence,
heavy with remorse and shame and self-loathing. It was like the thick
dregs lying at the bottom of the cup. But to Robert it was just
silence. He sank into it, deeper and deeper, until he slept.

He began to dream. The dreams walked about inside his brain, and were
red-coloured as though they were lit up by the glow of a hidden
furnace. All the people who took part in them came and went in great
haste. Or they made up hurried tableaux--Francey holding the stick and
looking at him in white anger, Christine huddled on the floor, his
father black and monstrous towering over her. Finally, they all
disappeared together, and Robert knew that it was because the Dragon
had woken up and was coming to devour them. He was climbing up from
the dining-room. Robert heard his tread on the stairs--heavy,
stumbling footsteps such as one would expect from a dragon on a narrow,
twisting staircase. They came nearer and nearer, and with every thud
Robert seemed to be lifted with a jerk from the depths in which he was
lying, and to be aware of his body stiffening in terror.