w; waited.
Still the cricket struck his chisel; the voices persisted, placid as bran.
But behind his head, in that tall shadow which his eyes could never reach, who could dare dream what abode its moment?
The voices chafed, untroubled: grumble and babble.
He cried out again more fiercely for his father.
There seemed a hollowing in the voices, as if they crossed a high trestle.
Serenely the curtain dilated, serenely failed.
The shadows lay where they belonged, but strain as he might, he could not descry what lay in the darkest of them.
The voices relaxed into their original heartlessness.
He swiftly turned his head and stared through the bars at the head of the crib. He could not see what stood there. He swiftly turned again. Whatever it might be had dodged, yet more swiftly: stood once more, still, forever, beyond and behind his hope of seeing.
He saw the basin and that it was only itself; but its eye was wicked ice.
Even the sugar curtains were evil, a senselessly fumbling mouth; and the leaves, wavering, stifled their tree like an infestation.
Near the window, a stain on the wallpaper, pale brown, a serpent shape.
Deadly, the opposite window returned his staring.
The cricket cherished what avaricious secret: patiently sculptured what effigy of dread?
The voices buzzed, pleased and oblivious as locusts. They cared nothing for him.
He screamed for his father.
