A dozen
doors gave into this big parlor--all of them closed. We perceived
that the sound came through the door nearest to us. "What is it?" I
asked, of Rosythe.
"God knows," said he; "you never can tell, in this place of
torment."
I was about to ask, "What sort of place is it?" But the moan came
again, louder, more long drawn out: "O-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-oh!" It ended
in a sort of explosion, as if the maker of it had burst.
Carpenter turned, and took two steps towards the door; then he
stopped, hesitating. My eyes followed him, and then turned to the
critic, who was watching Carpenter, with a broad grin on his face.
Evidently Rosythe was going to have some fun, and get his revenge!
The sound came again--louder, more harrowing. It came at regular
intervals, and each time with the explosion at the end. I watched
Carpenter, and he was like a high-spirited horse that hears the
cracking of a whip over his head. The creature becomes more
restless, he starts more quickly and jumps farther at each sound.
But he is puzzled; he does not know what these lashes mean, or which
way he ought to run.
Pages:
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40