Серце темряви

           Ablackfigurestoodup,strodeonlongblacklegs,wavinglongblackarms,acrosstheglow.Ithadhorns—antelopehorns,Ithink—onitshead.Somesorcerer,somewitch-man,nodoubt:itlookedfiendlikeenough.‘Doyouknowwhatyouaredoing?’Iwhispered.‘Perfectly,’heanswered,raisinghisvoiceforthatsingleword:itsoundedtomefaroffandyetloud,likeahailthroughaspeaking-trumpet.‘Ifhemakesarowwearelost,’Ithoughttomyself.Thisclearlywasnotacaseforfisticuffs,evenapartfromtheverynaturalaversionIhadtobeatthatShadow—thiswanderingandtormentedthing.‘Youwillbelost,’Isaid—‘utterlylost.’Onegetssometimessuchaflashofinspiration,youknow.Ididsaytherightthing,thoughindeedhecouldnothavebeenmoreirretrievablylostthanhewasatthisverymoment,whenthefoundationsofourintimacywerebeinglaid—toendure—toendure—eventotheend—evenbeyond.

           "‘Ihadimmenseplans,’hemutteredirresolutely.‘Yes,’saidI;‘butifyoutrytoshoutI’llsmashyourheadwith—’Therewasnotastickorastonenear.‘Iwillthrottleyouforgood,’Icorrectedmyself.‘Iwasonthethresholdofgreatthings,’hepleaded,inavoiceoflonging,withawistfulnessoftonethatmademybloodruncold.‘Andnowforthisstupidscoundrel—’‘YoursuccessinEuropeisassuredinanycase,’Iaffirmedsteadily.