He fell
back again, his brain swimming, his eyes bursting, his head splitting.
His state very much resembled that of a young man waking up in the
morning after his first tremendous "spree."
"Br--rr!" he muttered to himself, still talking French; "this reminds me
of one of my wild nights long ago in the _Quartier Latin_, only
decidedly more so!"
Lying quietly on his back for a while, he could soon feel that the
circulation of his blood, so suddenly and violently arrested by the
terrific shock, was gradually recovering its regular flow; his heart
grew more normal in its action; his head became clearer, and the pain
less distracting.
"Time to call that roll," he at last exclaimed in a voice with some
pretensions to firmness; "Barbican! MacNicholl!"
He listens anxiously for a reply. None comes. A snow-wrapt grave at
midnight is not more silent. In vain does he try to catch even the
faintest sound of breathing, though he listens intently enough to hear
the beating of their hearts; but he hears only his own.
"Call that roll again!" he mutters in a voice far less assured than
before; "Barbican! MacNicholl!"
The same fearful unearthly stillness.
"The thing is getting decidedly monotonous!" he exclaimed, still
speaking French.
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