They piled the dead wood
upon it before they lay down; as one resinous branch after another
caught fire the trees danced round in giant shadows, as though they were
doing a death-dance for their limbs on the funeral pyre. The silence was
a complete blank except when a flapping of wings beat the air where some
bird changed its night perch, or a parrot squawked hoarsely for a
moment, causing a fluttering of smaller wings that soon settled to
silence again.
Louis rolled over; like Marcella he had been lying on his back, staring
through the trees at the stars. His hand sought hers and held it,
quivering a little.
"You know, it's going to be a hell of a fight, Marcella," he said.
"Oh my dear, do you think so?" she asked, surprised that he was
confirming her opinion.
"Yes. In the city, you see, I only have to fight myself. I know, there,
that I can always get the stuff--even if I've no money I can beg or
pinch it--All I've to fight there is the accessibility of it. Here I've
to fight the inaccessibility...."
"I don't quite understand that, Louis."
"I don't suppose you do. You see, dearie, out here it's quite on the
cards that I shall go completely off my rocker." He spoke quietly,
rather wistfully and sadly.
"Louis!" she cried, sitting up and looking down at him.
"I know I can't get whisky, you see.
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