There was still an instant's time before she reached me, and I made use
of it. I shrank back, flattening myself against the wall. Her voice
ceased a moment, as she turned and carefully drew the curtains together
behind her, dosing them with one hand. Oblivious of my presence, though
she actually touched my dressing gown with the hand that pulled the
cords, she resumed her dreadful, solemn march, disappearing at length
down the long vista of the corridor like a shadow.
But as she passed me, her voice began again, so that I heard each word
distinctly as she uttered it, her head aloft, her figure upright, as
though she moved at the head of a procession:
"A drop of cold water, given in His name, shall moisten their burning
tongues."
It was repeated monotonously over and over again, droning down into the
distance as she went, until at length both voice and figure faded into
the shadows at the farther end.
For a time, I have no means of measuring precisely, I stood in that dark
corner, pressing my back against the wall, and would have drawn the
curtains down to hide me had I dared to stretch an arm out. The dread
that presently the woman would return passed gradually away.
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