. . .
Or perhaps it had happened already.
I opened my eyes again, cautiously, little by little. The Doctor was
filling Plinny's glass. Having filled it, he pushed the decanters
towards Mr. Rogers, and turned to say a word to Miss Belcher, on his
right. No; there was time. _It_ had not happened--yet.
I wanted to start up and scream aloud. But some power, stronger than
my will, held me down against the sofa-cushion. I had lost all grip
of myself--of my voice and limbs alike. I could neither stir nor
speak, but lay watching with half-closed eyes, while the room swam
and in my ears I heard a thin voice buzzing: "Tell your friends-the
ice--_he_ never touches the ice. But it will not save them. He will
find some other way."
The door opened, and its opening broke the spell. On the threshold
stood the tall negress with a tray of coffee-cups, and on the tray a
salver with a number of little glasses and a glass bowl--a bowl of
ice. Her master pushed back the decanters to make room for the tray
before him. She set it down, and the little glasses jingled softly.
"Upon my word, sir," said Miss Belcher, "what wonder upon wonders is
this? Ice? And in Mortallone?"
"It is Rosa's little surprise, madame, and she will be gratified by
your--"
He pushed back his chair and, leaving the sentence unfinished, rose
swiftly and came to me as I staggered up from the sofa.
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