terror passing through his body, the one time terror of the prison muttered insane, incoherent things.
Two guards pulled him to his knees. Others turned flashlights on his face—a face such as is seen in horrible nightmares; a ghastly face, partly covered with black mud; a pallid face where it shown through the grime. The eyes were wide, protruding, glassy.
"See! See!" the convict rasped hoarsely, pointing a mud-smeared hand at a dense black nook in the thicket. "See! He stands there and points at me—and laughs! It's Asa Shores! He's been in my cell every night for weeks—laughing at me! He sang a death song to me—always sang—always laughed! Wouldn't let me sleep! He's coming toward me! Stop him! Please—"
Then another horrible shriek, a shudder, a gasp, and the guards dropped the lifeless form of Malcolm Hulsey in the mud.
By some queer whim of fate, the speechless guards involuntarily switched off their flashlights. Utter darkness, utter silence enveloped them. Then a faint sound was heard.
"Listen!" came the hoarse voice of Guard Jerry Clark. "Do you hear it?"
Very little of it could be heard. It was a faint sound and growing fainter.
"When I die and am buried deep,
I'll return at night to . . ."
Then it was gone, and all was still again.
