But they swayed, fighting to keep their feet, fighting even with
their teeth, and above the din and noise of their hard breathing, the
clank of their chains, and their imprecations, there rose now and then a
wild sobbing cry for mercy, or an inhuman shriek, stifled as soon as
uttered, which showed that a man had gone down beneath the stamping
feet. Missiles, too, were flung across the prison, even to the foul
earth gathered from the floor, and since none knew from what quarter
they were flung, heads were battered against heads in the effort to
avoid them. And all these things happened in the blackest darkness.
For two hours Trench stood in that black prison ringing with noise, rank
with heat, and there were eight hours to follow before the door would be
opened and he could stumble into the clean air and fall asleep in the
zareeba. He stood upon tiptoe that he might lift his head above his
fellows, but even so he could barely breathe, and the air he breathed
was moist and sour. His throat was parched, his tongue was swollen in
his mouth and stringy like a dried fig. It seemed to him that the
imagination of God could devise no worse hell than the House of Stone on
an August night in Omdurman.
Pages:
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386