There in the sunken center, the stage, as it were, of this vaulted
subterranean amphitheater, stood the tiger on a patch of sandy earth,
among a tangle of living scrub. A soft and warm light shone down on him
through a broad opening in the stone overhead. Nor was it a mere hole
to the world beyond. Through one of the many wonders of Nature, a vein
of crystalline quartz interceded, allowing the sun's light to pass,
while gathering and holding a fair measure of its warmth.
All these things he observed in the time it took for his eyes to adjust
to what seemed a blinding glare, though in reality it was many shades
lighter than the unfiltered sunlight. He had not yet seen the shadows:
the tiger was not alone.
There, stretched lengthwise amid recessions in the descending,
stair-like levels, as if the whole of a deceased family among the
layered shelvings of a crypt, a full score of the dreadful reptiles lay
sleeping. It was a sight to freeze the blood, but for one odd detail
which their considerable girth clearly illustrated. THEY DID NOT
BREATHE. Or if they did, it was so infrequently that in the
considerable time he watched he never saw it. No heave or swell of the
elastic ribs and dry, loose-fitting skin could be seen, even where an
entire flank stood out against the unshaded light from above.
Pages:
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227