always considered the fate of 'The Wandering Jew' the most terrible in fiction."
A sickly smile passed over his face as he spoke.
"And yet," he continued, "it is odd how tenaciously people ding to life who profess not to care for it. If it will not bore you I will relate an incident which happened in Central India several years ago."
He did not wait for our acquiescence but plunged at once into his story:
"For five months I had been in India and the frightfulness of the climate had almost tom out my nerves by the roots. Day after day passed by in a monotony which cannot be described. Rolf Simmons and I had plunged into the heart of India, he to explore and I to paint pictures. It had not been our intention to remain more than sixty days at the outset, but Rolf had broken his leg and so our stay was lengthened by necessity. . .
"The incident I am describing happened on a night following a particularly trying day spent in the bush. Tired out both mentally and physically, I threw myself upon my cot without even removing my clothes. I was worn out with fatigue. Ambition had left me. And yet I could not sleep. I rolled and tossed upon my cot, gazing with burning eyes into the mysterious blackness of the oppressive night. The air was close and lifeless. My head throbbed with pain and my body seemed possessed of a blazing fever which rendered rest impossible. . . Toward midnight a faint sound broke the awful silence. I raised myself upon my elbow and listened, every nerve alert. The seconds sped by and all was still.
"'Nerves!' I muttered in a tone of disgust, and my head slipped back to the pillow.
"But almost as I spoke, the sound was repeated and in the utter solitude it seemed weird and unearthly. Then abruptly it ceased. And now the danger, if danger it were, seemed to have increased a hundredfold, for there was no way of telling in what direction it lay. It existed. But where?
"And then, suddenly, without warning, a piercing, fiendish shriek rose upon the air and echoed wildly through the jungle. My lips went white, and, trembling in every limb, I sprang from the cot, seized a repeating rifle which lay within easy reach and rushed out into the blackness of the night. For about a hundred yards I ran, and then I tripped over something soft. I dropped to my knee and ran my hand over the object. By the khaki suit I identified the prostrate body of Rolf Simmons. A deep ghastly ridge encircled his neck. He was quite dead. . .
"And now the moon, which had been hidden behind a cloud, gleamed forth in all its brightness as though to make some slight amends for its previous negligence. If such were the case, it accomplished its purpose, for, outlined against the curtain of jungle, was a dark figure, presumably a man, and yet it did not seem to have a face—just two wicked eyes gleaming out of the blackness. Even as I discovered it, I darted in pursuit. This was my prey! Revenge! The word seemed written in blazing blood before my eyes.
"The next moment the form had disappeared into the jungle, behind the curtain of blackness. Desperately, insanely, I sped after it. It seemed like a return again to the dark ages when primitive man fought primitive man; where the battle for existence was waged and only the fittest survived. And so the two of us rushed blindly into the dense maze of jungle, and anon we came to the border of a swamp. The Thing did not stop, but rushed headlong into the heart of this region of sickening, gurgling mud. A damp, nauseating vapor rose from the ground which appeared to have been boiled in the sun all day and not even yet to have entirely cooled. We had traversed, miraculously perhaps, half a mile of swamp-land without mishap, when suddenly, without the slightest warning, one of my legs sank with a purling splash almost up to the knee. Instantly, as it did so, I grasped wildly above my head and succeeded in getting a grip on the overhanging branches of a huge tree.
"I could feel some kind of a slimy insect crawling over my hand, but I had no time to brush it off, for the moment I became aware of it two arms grasped my leg, the one which had sunk into the mud, and pulled down upon it with devilish strength. By the light of the moon, which flickered faintly through the branches, far above, I could dimly make out the terrible, repulsive figure of the Thing. It seemed to be half dog, half man and smeared with slime from head to foot. But the chief points of repulsion were the eyes, which glittered in the semi-blackness like the eyes of a cheetah, and the teeth, which resembled the fangs of a hunger-crazed wolf.
"Such was the loathsome beast, a human octopus, which was grimly twining its arms about my knee. The mud half submerged the bloated body, and slowly, gradually, it was sinking lower and lower into the bottomless bog. And as it sank, it pulled me steadily down with it."
"It was in a quandary. What should I
do? Ponder as I would, I could find
no way out, and then finally Fate decided
for me.
"The beast lowered its head and buried its fangs in the calf of my leg. As it did so the last vestige of civilization flickered from my body. I was now not only the primitive man but the savage also. Emitting a low cry. I drew back my one free foot and let drive a backward kick which struck the Thing square in the face. I laughed softly, viciously, as I heard the bones crack, and the slimy arms fell limply from my leg.
"The fight with the beast was at an end; I had now to subdue the swamp. I struggled, strained and pulled with all my strength to get my leg free. The sweat poured from my body in streams, my veins stood out on my neck like whipcord, my breath came from my lips in short quick gasps. For hours, it seemed, the grim, unequal fight went on. I grit my teeth and would not give up.
"My strength was fast running low, when suddenly it seemed as if I gained a trifle. It was not much ground to win, but it still was something. It was sufficient to rekindle hope, and I brought all my strength together for one mighty effort. The strain was terrible, but the end was accomplished. I freed myself from the swamp. One victim had been snatched from the horrible mud, but it vented its anger on the one that remained. Already the slime had reached its neck and was fast rising up to its mouth.
"A shudder passed over me as I gazed at the loathsome face, now a mass of blood. And the mud rose above the mouth, crept to the nose, the eyes, the head. Then came a series of bubbles, and all was still. In the distance an owl hooted dismally. The horrible life had come to an end. The swamp had reclaimed its own."
Pelegin paused for a moment, then
he said:
"That, gentlemen, is my story. I have simply repeated it to prove my point—that one clings to life even though one longs for death. I cannot recall ever having had a desire to live, and yet a score of times I have fought for life with all my strength. In India, especially, existing had grown distasteful to me. The monotonoy of heat and silence, I believed, was crushing me either toward death or insanity. I can not explain the condition. I suppose it is just another of the many complexities of earth which I have never been able to master. Even at this moment, the craving for life is dead
