Война миров
The Death of the Curate
Icreptbacktothecoalcellar,shutthedoor,andbegantocovermyselfupasmuchasIcould,andasnoiselesslyaspossibleinthedarkness,amongthefirewoodandcoaltherein. EverynowandthenIpaused,rigid,toheariftheMartianhadthrustitstentaclesthroughtheopeningagain.
Thenthefaintmetallicjinglereturned. Itraceditslowlyfeelingoverthekitchen. PresentlyIhearditnearer—inthescullery,asIjudged. Ithoughtthatitslengthmightbeinsufficienttoreachme. Iprayedcopiously. Itpassed,scrapingfaintlyacrossthecellardoor. Anageofalmostintolerablesuspenseintervened; thenIhearditfumblingatthelatch! Ithadfoundthedoor! TheMartiansunderstooddoors!
Itworriedatthecatchforaminute,perhaps,andthenthedooropened.
InthedarknessIcouldjustseethething—likeanelephant’strunkmorethananythingelse—wavingtowardsmeandtouchingandexaminingthewall,coals,woodandceiling. Itwaslikeablackwormswayingitsblindheadtoandfro.
Once,even,ittouchedtheheelofmyboot. Iwasonthevergeofscreaming;Ibitmyhand. Foratimethetentaclewassilent. Icouldhavefanciedithadbeenwithdrawn. Presently,withanabruptclick,itgrippedsomething—Ithoughtithadme! —andseemedtogooutofthecellaragain. ForaminuteIwasnotsure. Apparentlyithadtakenalumpofcoaltoexamine.
Iseizedtheopportunityofslightlyshiftingmyposition,whichhadbecomecramped,andthenlistened. Iwhisperedpassionateprayersforsafety.
