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The
sufferings I endured were horrible. My uncle now kept at the head of our
little column. Nothing could induce him to stop. I, meanwhile, had but
one real thought. My ear was keenly on the watch to catch the sound of a
spring. But no pleasant sound of falling water fell upon my listening
ear.
But at last the time came when my limbs refused to carry me longer. I
contended heroically against the terrible tortures I endured, because I
did not wish to compel my uncle to halt. To him I knew this would be the
last fatal stroke.
Suddenly I felt a deadly faintness come over me. My eyes could no longer
see; my knees shook. I gave one despairing cry--and fell!
"Help, help, I am dying!"
My uncle turned and slowly retraced his steps. He looked at me with
folded arms, and then allowed one sentence to escape, in hollow accents,
from his lips:
"All is over."
The last thing I saw was a face fearfully distorted with pain and
sorrow; and then my eyes closed.
When I again opened them, I saw my companions lying near me, motionless,
wrapped in their huge traveling rugs. Were they asleep or dead? For
myself, sleep was wholly out of the question. My fainting fit over, I
was wakeful as the lark. I suffered too much for sleep to visit my
eyelids--the more, that I thought myself sick unto death--dying. The
last words spoken by my uncle seemed to be buzzing in my ears--all is
over! And it was probable that he was right. In the state of prostration
to which I was reduced, it was madness to think of ever again seeing the
light of day.
Above were miles upon miles of the earth's crust. As I thought of it, I
could fancy the whole weight resting on my shoulders. I was crushed,
annihilated! and exhausted myself in vain attempts to turn in my granite
bed.
Hours upon hours passed away. A profound and terrible silence reigned
around us--a silence of the tomb. Nothing could make itself heard
through these gigantic walls of granite. The very thought was
stupendous.
Presently, despite my apathy, despite the kind of deadly calm into which
I was cast, something aroused me. It was a slight but peculiar noise.
While I was watching intently, I observed that the tunnel was becoming
dark. Then gazing through the dim light that remained, I thought I saw
the Icelander taking his departure, lamp in hand.
Why had he acted thus? Did Hans the guide mean to abandon us? My uncle
lay fast asleep--or dead. I tried to cry out, and arouse him. My voice,
feebly issuing from my parched and fevered lips, found no echo in that
fearful place. My throat was dry, my tongue stuck to the roof of my
mouth. The obscurity had by this time become intense, and at last even
the faint sound of the guide's footsteps was lost in the blank distance.
My soul seemed filled with anguish, and death appeared welcome, only let
it come quickly.
"Hans is leaving us," I cried. "Hans--Hans, if you are a man, come
back."
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