gave him a sense of companionship. And then, as he lay back on the bed
again, the lamp went out. He groped for it and shook it. There was no
oil.

Now, what had been hot horror turned to fear that passed all
understanding--to the hate that does not reason--to the cold sweat
breaking on the roasted skin. Where the four walls had been there was
blackness of immeasurable space. He could hear the thousand-footed
cannibals of night creep nearer--driven in toward him by the dinning
of the tom-toms. He felt that his bed was up above a scrambling swarm
of black-legged things that fought.

He had no idea how long he lay stock-still, for fear of calling
attention to himself, and hated his servant and Mahommed Gunga and all
India. Once--twice--he thought he heard another sound, almost like
the footfall of a man on the veranda near him. Once he thought that a
man breathed within ten paces of him, and for a moment there was a
distinct sensation of not being alone. He hoped it was true; he could
deal with an assassin. That would be something tangible to hate and
hit. Manhood came to his assistance--the spirit of the soldier that
will bow to nothing that has shape; but it died away again as the
creeping silence once more shut down on him.

And then the thunder of the tom-toms ceased. Then even the venomed
crawlers that he knew were near him faded into nothing that really
mattered, compared to the greater, stealthy horror that he knew was
coming, born of the shuddersome, shut silence that ensued. There was
neither air nor view--no sense of time or space--nothing but the
coal-black pit of terror yawning--cold sweat in the heat, and a
footfall--an undoubted footfall--followed by another one, too heavy