Scheherazade: a London night's entertainmentWarden, Florence
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Scheherazade: a London night's entertainment
Warden, Florence
English fiction -- 19th century
Then came a time for the poor fellow when he prayed for death at last.
With the rotting leaves of the previous autumn forming a slimy pillow
for his head, his body sinking slowly into the damp earth, while a
rising wind moaned a low dirge among the surrounding hills and swept
over the thinly-leaved branches above his head with a sepulchral
“hush!” he felt all the horrors of the grave, all its loneliness, all
its impotence, without the one blessing--peace, which we hope for
there in spite of the clergy, who are ferocious as regards the next
world to counter-balance their meekness in this. The deft Rahas had
bound him sailor-fashion, beginning with the middle of the rope; and
the knots were immovable as iron; he began to feel cramped and
benumbed by the cold, the rising moisture amid the undergrowth of the
wood, and the impeded circulation of his blood. Still his head
remained hot as fire, his brain reeling in a mad dance of fantastic
tortures, until at last frenzy came, and pictures of the past chased
each other through his memory, but with a lurid light of horror upon
them which distorted his fairest recollections, and turned them into
ugly nightmares. Then in turn the pictures faded and his senses began
to grow dull, and strange cries to sound in his ears to which he tried
to reply; but his voice would not come, and even as his lips moved in
this effort, the last gleam of sense left him, and he fell into
unconsciousness.
As upon the blackness of night the fair, pure dawn comes gradually, so
George, from the stupor of a deadly lethargy, woke by slow degrees to
sensations of warmth, and light, and joy; and feeling, before the
sense of sight came back to him, a soft touch on his flesh that set
him quivering, and a breath against his lips that exhaled the very
perfume of love, he fancied in the first moments of a still feebly
moving brain, that his prayer had been granted, that he was dead, and
in Heaven. Until suddenly there burst upon his ears a wild, joyous
cry: “He is breathing! He has come back to me--back, thank God! thank
God!”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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