It was cold too--and terror made
them colder--for the evening was drawing on, and it was only April. Yet
they dared not move--Pamela indeed could not have stood up--and so there
they stayed, Duke crouched beside his sister, who lay almost at full
length on the short tufty grass, among the roots and stumps, for just
here a good deal of wood had been cut down. There was no fear of their
moving--the shivers and sobs that they could not control added to their
fears--they would have left off breathing even, if they could have
managed it, rather than risk betraying their presence to the snakes!
But after some minutes--not more than five probably, though it seemed
more like five hours--had passed the silence and strain grew unbearable
to Duke. He peeped at Pamela; her eyes were closed, she looked so
dreadfully white!--his heart gave such a thump that he looked round for
a moment in terror, it seemed to him such a loud noise,--what could make
her look so? Could the fear and the pain have killed her?
"Pamela," he whispered, in what he meant to be a very low whisper
indeed; "Oh, sister, are you dead?"
Her eyelids fluttered a little, and she half opened them.
"No, bruvver; at least I don't fink so," she said, and her whisper was
very faint without her trying to make it so, for she was really quite
exhausted.
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