I felt for
the matches. The match-box was empty. Up to that moment--I cannot tell
why--something--an unaccountable dread--had prevented me looking at the
door. I made an effort and looked. It was shut, and through the cracks
and through the keyhole I saw the glimmer of a light. Braun had lit his
candle. I called him, not very loudly: there was no answer. I called
again more loudly: there was still no answer.
"Then I got out of bed and walked to the door. As I went, it was gently
and slightly opened, just enough to show me a thin streak of light.
At that moment I felt that some one was looking at me. Then it was
instantly shut once more, as softly as it had been opened. There was not
a sound to be heard. I walked on tiptoe towards the door, but it seemed
to me that I had taken a hundred years to cross the room. And when
at last I reached the door I felt I could not open it. I was simply
paralysed with fear. And still I saw the glimmer through the key-hole
and the cracks.
"Suddenly, as I was standing transfixed with fright in front of the
door, I heard sounds coming from Braun's room, a shuffle of footsteps,
and voices talking low but distinctly in a language I could not
understand. It was not Italian, Spanish, nor French. The voices grew all
at once louder; I heard the noise of a struggle and a cry which ended
in a stifled groan, very painful and horrible to hear.
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