still depressed, my lungs half drowned in the dense humor of the valley and my ears ringing from the clamorous insect mob without, I heard a stifled, whimpering cry—the moan of a little child who has been whipped for inheriting nerves. It struck a chill—there was a great deal that was chill in that place of hot fears, cold passions, joyless content and light-hearted sloth a place where one's skin crept clammily while the bones were burning.
"'Who is that!' I asked, quite loudly, for I did not care if the others awoke.
"There came in answer the whimper of one too frightened to speak. Did you ever, as a child, Doctor, waken with the nightmare, afraid to cry out, afraid to move, tortured by the whimpers wrung out in reasonless terror? It was that kind of a sound.
"'What is it !' I asked.
" 'It is Tomba.'
" 'What is the matter with you?' said I.
" 'I am afraid.'
" 'And what are you afraid of of?'
[ 17 ]
