Adventure stories; Fantasy fiction, English; Quatermain, Allan (Fictitious character) -- Fiction
“That has some consolations,” I replied, “since the mindless do not
suffer. But if such is the case, how do you account for what you and
poor Savage saw that night in the Town of the Child? It was not
altogether a phantasy, for the dress you described was the same we saw
her wearing at the Feast of the First-fruits.”
“I don’t know what to make of it, Quatermain, except that many strange
things happen in the world which we mock at as insults to our limited
intelligence because we cannot understand them.” (Very soon I was to
have another proof of this remark.) “But what are you driving at? You
are keeping something back.”
“Only this, Ragnall. If your wife were utterly mad I cannot conceive
how it came about that she searched you out and spoke to you even in a
vision—for the thing was not an individual dream since both you and
Savage saw her. Nor did she actually visit you in the flesh, as the
door never opened and the spider’s web across it was not broken. So it
comes to this: either some part of her is not mad but can still
exercise sufficient will to project itself upon your senses, or she is
dead and her disembodied spirit did this thing. Now we know that she is
not dead, for we have seen her and Harût has confessed as much.
Therefore I maintain that, whatever may be her temporary state, she
must still be fundamentally of a reasonable mind, as she is of a
natural body. For instance, she may only be hypnotized, in which case
the spell will break one day.”
“Thank you for that thought, old fellow. It never occurred to me and it
gives me new hope. Now listen! If I should come to grief in this
business, which is very likely, and you should survive, you will do
your best to get her home; will you not? Here is a codicil to my will
which I drew up after that night of dream, duly witnessed by Savage and
Hans. It leaves to you whatever sums may be necessary in this connexion
and something over for yourself. Take it, it is best in your keeping,
especially as if you should be killed it has no value.”
“Of course I will do my best,” I answered as I put away the paper in my
pocket. “And now don’t let us take any more thought of being killed,
which may prevent us from getting the sleep we want. I don’t mean to be
killed if I can help it. I mean to give those beggars, the Black
Kendah, such a doing as they never had before, and then start for the
coast with you and Lady Ragnall, as, God willing, we shall do. Good
night.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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