Finally all of
them were lost in one--a moaning, sobbing voice that was calling his
name again and again, a voice that seemed to reach to him from out of an
infinity of distance, and that he knew was the voice of Meleese. He
strove to speak, to lift his arms, but his tongue was as lead, his arms
as though fettered with steel bands.
The voice died away. He lived through a cycle of speechless, painless
night into which finally a gleam of dawn returned. He felt as if years
were passing in his efforts to move, to lift himself out of chaos. But
at last he won. His eyes opened, he raised himself. His first sensation
was that he was no longer in the snow and that the storm was not beating
into his face. Instead there encompassed him a damp dungeon-like chill.
Everywhere there was blackness--everywhere except in one spot, where a
little yellow eye of fire watched him and blinked at him. At first he
thought that the eye must be miles and miles away. But it came quickly
nearer--and still nearer--until at last he knew that it was a candle
burning with the silence of a death taper a yard or two beyond his feet.
CHAPTER XVI
JEAN'S STORY
It was the candle-light that dragged Howland quickly back into
consciousness and pain.
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