orrow, it will eat into my face. I
shall become a terrible mass of living corruption. There is no escape.
Yet, a thought has come to me, born of a sight of the gun-rack, on the
other side of the room. I have looked again--with the strangest of
feelings. The thought grows upon me. God, Thou knowest, Thou must know,
that death is better, aye, better a thousand times than This. This!
Jesus, forgive me, but I cannot live, cannot, cannot! I dare not! I am
beyond all help--there is nothing else left. It will, at least, spare
me that final horror....

I think I must have been dozing. I am very weak, and oh! so miserable,
so miserable and tired--tired. The rustle of the paper, tries my brain.
My hearing seems preternaturally sharp. I will sit awhile and think....

"Hush! I hear something, down--down in the cellars. It is a creaking
sound. My God, it is the opening of the great, oak trap. What can be
doing that? The scratching of my pen deafens me ... I must listen....
There are steps on the stairs; strange padding steps, that come up and
nearer.... Jesus, be merciful to me, an old man. There is something
fumbling at the door-handle. O God, help me now! Jesus--The door is
opening--slowly. Somethi--"

That is all[16]

_XXVII_

CONCLUSION

I put down the Manuscript, and glanced across at Tonnison: he was
sitting, staring out into the dark. I waited a minute; then I spoke.

"Well?" I said.

He turned, slowly, and looked at me. His thoughts seemed to have gone
out of him into a great distance.

"Was he mad?" I asked, and indicated the MS., with a half nod.

Tonnison stared at me, unseeingly, a moment; then, his wits came back to
him, and, suddenly, he comprehended my question.

"No!" he said.

I opened my lips, to offer a contradictory opinion; for my sense of the
saneness of things, would not allow me to take the story literally; then
I shut them again, without saying anything. Somehow, the certainty in
Tonnison's voice affected my doubts. I felt, all at once, less assured;
though I was by no means convinced as yet.

After a few moments' silence, Tonnison rose, stiffly, and began to
undress. He seemed disinclined to talk; so I said nothing; but followed
his example. I was weary; though still full of the story I had
just read.

Somehow, as I rolled into my blankets, there crept into my mind a memory
of the old gardens, as we had seen them. I remembered the odd fear that
the place had conjured up in our hearts;