The very definite terrors of the inner hall
seemed to him to surpass the vaguer terrors of the drawing-room, and he
decided to return thither in order to consider quietly what his tactics
should be; if necessary, he could return to the dome for arms and
assistance. But no sooner did he move a foot towards the drawing-room
than another shot sounded. The drawing-room portiere trembled, and
something crashed within the apartment. The mysterious will had ardently
decided that he should go neither back nor forward.
'Who's there? Who's that shooting?' he muttered thickly, and
extinguished his lamp.
He had meant to cry out loud, but, to his intense surprise, his throat
was dried up.
There was no answer, no stir, no noise. The silence that exists between
the stars seemed to close in upon him. Then he really knew what fear
was. He admitted to himself that he was unmistakably and horribly
afraid. He admitted that life was inconceivably precious, and the
instinct to preserve it the greatest of all instincts. And gradually he
came to see that the safest course was the most desperate course, and
gradually his courage triumphed over his fear.
He dropped gently to his hands and knees, and began, with a thousand
precautions, to crawl like a serpent towards the outer hall.
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