And then, as he lay back on the bed again, the lamp went out.

He groped for it and shook it.

There was no oil.
Now, what had been hot horror turned to fear that passed all understanding--to the hate that does not reason--to the cold sweat breaking on the roasted skin.

Where the four walls had been there was blackness of immeasurable space.

He could hear the thousand-footed cannibals of night creep nearer--driven in toward him by the dinning of the tom-toms.