HE TOOK A DEEP BREATH. “Harse!” he started to call; wake him up, make him stop this! But he couldn’t. He got no further than the first huff of the aspirate when the scurrying cold feet were on his lips. Something cold and damp lay across them and it stuck. Like spider silk, but stronger—he couldn’t speak, couldn’t move his lips, though he almost tore the flesh.
Oh, he could make a noise, all right. He started to do so, to snort and hum through his nose. But Mooney was not slow of thought and he had a sudden clear picture of that same cold ribbon crossing his nostrils, and what would be the use of all of time’s treasures then, when it was no longer possible to breathe at all?
It was quite apparent that he was not to make a noise.
He had patience—the kind of patience that grows with a die
