THE THRESHOLD OF FEAR
grew cold with fear. His burning eyes looked into mine, and I gave a loud cry. I woke to reality, with a start, and my reason and my courage returned. Angrily I told myself that if I did not take hold of my nerves I would become a victim of the same hallucination that had wrecked young Chesworth's life. I was unworthy of Eleanor's trust, giving way to such fancies, like a nervous, hysterical fool.
Leaning against the tree, I sought to reason things out, and my late employer's share in it all. Why had he gone away, and why had he so mysteriously returned? What was his object in masquerading as Death—if indeed it was he, as I supposed? Or had this mystery a deeper, more sinister depth than that? These were questions I asked myself in great mental perplexity, with the feeling that the problem was one too awful to be solved, even by Colwin Grey himself. I wondered what he was doing just then, and if he was waiting by the cliffs in the lonely desert hut. Waiting—for what?
From these thoughts my mind returned to my surroundings. It was very quiet and still, and shadows thronged thickly beneath the tree. I had no idea of the flight of time, for I dared not strike a match to look at my watch. But the darkness around me grew deeper as the moments ebbed away, flowing about me like a tide. I seemed to behold dark waters rising noiselessly in a flood, seeking to encompass me like a black river of death. This new fancy gripped me with fear, and I stared before me as at a real source of peril. I actually had the sensation of standing in water, which flowed stealthily upward until my middle was passed. Upward it mounted, until the waters of the shadowy river touched my dry lips. The flavor was bitter indeed. It was the water of Death.
I gave a violent start, staring above me into the thick and twisted branches of the tree. I was like a man roughly awakened from a had dream, to find the reality worse than the thought. The waters of Death still seemed to be singing in my ears. Trembling and perplexed, my senses slowly came back. Gradually I became aware of myself and my surroundings—of the darkness, the wind sighing in the tree, and the faint outline of the empty moors. But none of these things brought me back to watchfulness. It was that other and more sinister sound which was the reason for my vigil there.
My first thought was that a dream still held me, because as I listened now I could hear no sound; though subconsciously my brain had registered it but a moment before. Then it came again; so softly as to be almost inaudible except to a tense listening ear; faint, indeed, but unmistakable—the rhythmic throbbing of a distant drum.
I listened with an effort. Far away in the darkness it sounded, though I had no idea of the direction from where it came. With a rise and fall the hollow cadence reached me, rolling faintly across the moors; tremulous, but unceasing, an unseen drummer beating a tattoo.
At first it seemed to approach no nearer. Certainly my ear for a long time could detect no difference in the dim, hollow sound. Then bit by bit the taps grew sharper and sharper and more distinct. I looked about me in the darkness, and still I could not tell whence it came. But I knew it was drawing closer now, and coming fast. I could even distinguish the rattle of bone or stick on parchment instead of the first faint muffled beat. Again I heard it more distinctly, and was able to locate it at last. The drum was crossing the moors near me in the direction of Charmingdene. It was climbing the slope of the hill to the tree where I stood on guard.
There was a thrill in that knowledge. I like to think I was able to behave with a semblance of courage and calm, even as the evil thing drew near. As I waited I wondered whether they had yet heard the drum in the house. It was possible that the sound was not yet audible to them, as it was to me, out on the open moors. Fervently I hoped that this was the case. The drum crept closer; nearer to the tree. I looked hastily towards the house. It was dark and silent, as it had been
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