The burden of his
conversation was that there was no escape "of no kind whatever," and that I
should stay here till I died and was "thrown on to the sand." If it were
possible to forejudge the conversation of the Damned on the advent of a new
soul in their abode, I should say that they would speak as Gunga Dass did to
me throughout that long afternoon. I was powerless to protest or answer; all
my energies being devoted to a struggle against the inexplicable terror that
threatened to overwhelm me again and again. I can compare the feeling to
nothing except the struggles of a man against the overpowering nausea of the
Channel passage--only my agony was of the spirit and infinitely more terrible.
As the day wore on, the inhabitants began to appear in full strength to catch
the rays of the afternoon sun, which were now sloping in at the mouth of the
crater. They assembled in little knots, and talked among themselves without
even throwing a glance in my direction. About four o'clock, as far as I could
judge Gunga Dass rose and dived into his lair for a moment, emerging with a
live crow in his hands. The wretched bird was in a most draggled and
deplorable condition, but seemed to be in no way afraid of its master,
Advancing cautiously to the river front, Gunga Dass stepped from tussock to
tussock until he had reached a smooth patch of sand directly in the line of
the boat's fire.
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