And what were the voices saying? Urging him to move! Why? Move to
destruction! Not likely! The absurdity of the thing filled him with
indignation. He got a firmer foothold and stiffened his muscles in
heroic resolve to carry his burden to all eternity. And ages passed in
the superhuman labour, amidst the rush of circling worlds; in the
plaintive murmur of sorrowful voices urging him to desist before it was
too late--till the mysterious power that had laid upon him the giant task
seemed at last to seek his destruction. With terror he felt an
irresistible hand shaking him by the shoulder, while the chorus of voices
swelled louder into an agonised prayer to go, go before it is too late.
He felt himself slipping, losing his balance, as something dragged at his
legs, and he fell. With a faint cry he glided out of the anguish of
perishing creation into an imperfect waking that seemed to be still under
the spell of his dream.
"What? What?" he murmured sleepily, without moving or opening his eyes.
His head still felt heavy, and he had not the courage to raise his
eyelids. In his ears there still lingered the sound of entreating
whisper.--"Am I awake?--Why do I hear the voices?" he argued to himself,
hazily.
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