An', then, you're Robert
Burnham's son, you know, an' that's a good deal to think of;
you're--Robert Burnham's--son."
For a long time after this there was silence, and the boy did not
move. Then fear came back to him. He thought that the darkness was
closing in again upon him, that it pressed him from above, from right
and left, that it crowded back his breath and crushed his body. He
felt that he must escape from it.
He was too weak now to rise and walk, so he lifted himself to his
hands and knees and began to move away like a creeping child.
There were many obstacles in his path, some of them imaginary, most of
them real. There were old mine caps, piles of dirt, pieces of slate,
and great lumps of coal on' which he cut his hands and bruised his
knees. But he met and passed them all. He was intent only on getting
away from these dreadful powers of darkness, they tortured him so.
And he did get away from them. He came to a place where the space
about him seemed large, where the floor was smooth, and the air so
clear and pure that he could breathe it freely.
Utter darkness, indeed, surrounded him, but it was a darkness not
peopled with evil beings; it was more like the sweet darkness of a
summer night, with the fragrance of dew-wet flowers in the air.
He leaned against a pillar to rest. He thought to stay here until the
end should come.
He was not suffering from any pain now; he was glad of that. And he
should die peacefully, leaving no wrong behind him, with no guilt
upon his conscience, no sin upon his soul.
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