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Stout, Rex, 1886-1975

"Under the Andes"


The thing had halted on the farther bank of the stream. Still I
moved forward. The water now lapped against my chest; soon it was
about my shoulders.
I was fully conscious of the fact that in another ten feet the
surface would close over my head, and that I had not the strength
to swim or fight the current; but still I went forward. I tried
to cry out, but could force no sound through my lips.
Then suddenly the eyes began to disappear. But that at least was
comprehensible, for I could distinctly see the black and heavy
lids closing over them, like the curtain on a stage. They fell
slowly.
The eyes became half moons, then narrowed to a thin slit. I
rose, panting like a man exhausted with extreme and prolonged
physical exertion.
The eyes were gone.
A mad impulse rushed into my brain to dash forward and touch the
monster, to see if that dim, black form were really a thing of
flesh and blood or some contrivance of the devil. I smile at that
phrase as I write it now in my study, but I did not smile then. I
was standing above my knees in the water, trembling from head to
foot, divided between the impulse to go forward and the
inclination to flee in terror.


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