"
The black fan began fluttering once more. It seemed a hopeful sign; but
the keen old eyes were far from satisfied.
"Why have you such a sensual face?"
"I was born under a peach tree."
"Pass," said the old man, regretfully. And Heywood, glancing back from
the mouth of a dark corridor, saw him, beside the table of camagon,
wagging his head like a judge doubtful of his judgment.
The narrow passage, hot, fetid, and blacker than the wholesome night
without, crooked about sharp corners, that bruised the wanderer's hands
and arms. Suddenly he fell down a short flight of slimy steps, landing
in noisome mud at the bottom of some crypt. A trap, a suffocating well,
he thought; and rose filthy, choked with bitterness and disgust. Only
the taunting justice of Wutzler's argument, the retort _ad hominem_, had
sent him headlong into this dangerous folly. He had scolded a coward
with hasty words, and been forced to follow where they led. To this
loathsome hole. Behind him, a door closed, a bar scraped softly into
place. Before him, as he groped in rage and self-reproach, rose a vault
of solid plaster, narrow as a chimney.
Pages:
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144