od for windows
in a Norman castle. It was my last chance, and I meant to take it like a
man.

I stood for a moment nerving myself and taking deep breaths, as though I
expected to take but few more. Then, my left arm extended, I entered
sidewise, and began to edge myself along. It was easy enough for a yard
or two, after which it was plain that it was beginning to narrow. Very
slightly indeed, but still a little. However, I could still go on,
and--I could still go back. I went on--more slowly it is true, yet still
I progressed. But the rock was perceptibly closer to me. I had to
struggle harder. It was beginning to hug me--very gently--but it was
beginning.

I paused to take breath. I could not turn my head to look back, but I
judged that I had come over a third of the way. I was coming up to the
waist that I had feared, but I could still go on--very slowly, scarce
more than an inch at every effort; yet every inch counted, and I had
lots of time. My feet and head were free--which was the main thing.
Another good push or two, and I should be at the waist--should know my
fate.

I gave the good push or two, and suddenly the arms of the rock were
around me. Tight and close, this time, they hugged me. They held me
fast, like a rude lover, and would not let me go. My knees and feet were
fast, and the walls on each side pressed my cheeks. My head too was
fast. I could not move an inch forward--and it was too late to go back!

Panic swept over me. I felt that my hair must be turning white.
Presently I ceased to struggle. But the rocks held me in their giant
embrace. There was no need for me to do anything. I could go on resting
there--it was very comfortable--till--

And then I felt something touching my feet, running away and then
touching them again. O God! It was the incoming tide! It would--And then
I prepared myself to die. I suppose I was lightheaded, with the strain
and the lack of food, for, after the first panic, I found myself
dreamily, almost luxuriously, making pictures of how brave men had died
in the past--brave women too. I fancied myself in one and another
situation. But the picture that persisted was that of the Conciergerie
during the French Revolution. I was a noble, talking gaily to beautiful
ladies also under the shadow of death, and, right in the middle of a
jest, a gloomy fellow had just come in--to lead me to the guillotine.
The door was opening, and I kissed my hand in farewell--

Then the pictur