The ceiling was lost to
view; the yawning fire-place, the overhanging mantel-piece, the long
row of battle pictures above, were all swallowed up in night. But one
visible object was discernible, besides the gleaming windows and the
moon-striped floor. Midway in the last and furthest of the strips of
light, the tripod rose erect on its gaunt black legs, like a monster
called to life by the moon--a monster rising through the light, and
melting invisibly into the upper shadows of the Hall. Far and near, all
sound lay dead, drowned in the stagnant cold. The soothing hush of night
was awful here. The deep abysses of darkness hid abysses of silence more
immeasurable still.
She stood motionless in the door-way, with straining eyes, with
straining ears. She looked for some moving thing, she listened for
some rising sound, and looked and listened in vain. A quick ceaseless
shivering ran through her from head to foot. The shivering of fear, or
the shivering of cold? The bare doubt roused her resolute will. "Now,"
she thought, advancing a step through the door-way, "or never! I'll
count the strips of moonlight three times over, and cross the Hall."
"One, two, three, four, five.
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