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s under it。
To the left now； she warned herself harassedly； to the left； be careful… She couldn't even tell for a moment which it was。 The heart。 The heart was always on the left。 She put her hand to it； and its pounding was almost a physical hurt； like hammer blows against the hollow of the hand。 She let it guide her； swerved around toward that side； and the urn was whisked from sight behind her； like something worked on invisible strings。
The broad； paved alley that led straight to the gate lay before her now； and the worst was over。 Its firm surface was easier to run on than the shifting gravel； but she couldn't gain much added advantage； she was already too exhausted。 She tottered waveringly on； she daren't falter now。 She tried to call out again； and found she couldn't。 A muted； strangled sound； that scarcely outdistanced her herself； was all that she could utter。 It seemed to tear at her suffocating throat。 〃Leave the gates open； wait for me！〃
Straight and broad the avenue stretched before her； its side boundary lines drawing to a shadowy junction in the darkness ahead that kept eluding her； never came any closer。 Behind her； that same malignant wind that smelled of the clamminess of tombs and the stench of rotted coffins seemed to have turned at the urn just as she had； seemed to be keeping up its insatiable； humming pursuit； even down this straightaway。 It was like running down a track of perpetual motion； whose reverse direction ate up all the gain you made； kept you standing still at a fixed point after all； though limbs and heart and lungs wore themselves out。
A bench went slowly past on one side。 Then； after a while； another went slowly past on the other。 How she wanted to topple down on one of them and just lie there half senseless…but she daren't。 It was so long ago that the whistle blasts had sounded； would they really have heard her cries？ Would they still be waiting； keeping them open？ Then why didn't they e forward； even a little part of the way； why didn't she see the glimmer of their lanterns down there at the end of this interminable perspective。
There was something wrong。 The distance to the gate seemed greater than she remembered it。 It was greater； there was no mistaking it。 This wasn't a distortion of panic； of darkness； it was a question of the length of time she had been running； and the distance she had covered。 She should have reached that gate already two or three times over by now。 Even at a walk it had never seemed this far； never been this far； before。
The thought of what it was； of what had happened； was like ice creeping through her veins； numbing as it wound its way。 And then behind it was heat again； ready to claim her in turn； but not the warmth of sanity； of normalcy； any more。 The fever heat of burning madness； the temperature of nightmare。
She was scarcely moving forward now。 She couldn't any more。 She was swaying there； her limbs still trying to carry her forward； only succeeding in making little rotary motions on the ground。 And still it stretched endlessly before her； to that immutable vanishing point it had had all along； ever since back there at the urn。
She tried to think。 Left。 Yes； left。 Izquierda。 That was the word； that was the direction。 But left when？ On ing in； when you wanted to go toward your family's plot？ Or on going out； when you wanted to go toward the gate？ Left was the word。 Rosita had said it that other time； when they had stopped uncertainly for a moment there by it。 She could still hear the remark sound in her mind。 〃No； left； Seсorita Conchita。〃 That part was all right。 But left when？ She couldn't remember whether they had been ing in or going out at the time。 Her mind had been full of him。
She reeled around and looked behind her。 The urn had been lost long ago。 All that met her eyes was another of those vanishing points； no different from the one in front of her。
She'd made the wrong turning； e the wrong way。 She'd plunged deeper into this fastness of the dead； instead of making her way out。 The preliminary sobs of hysteria started to form in her throat； each one rising higher than the one before。 She drove both hands distractedly through the ringleted hair that Raul had once admired so； dislodged the coronet of twisted black braid that encircled it and the veiling depending from it。 They fell to the ground behind her； and she let them stay there unheeded。
The gates must be closed long ago。 They'd never heard her； never guessed。 She was locked in this hideous place for the night； and no one knew it。 They'd gone away and left her in here； with the dead。 She knew that nearsighted old man didn't sleep here on the grounds。 The little kiosk that sheltered him during visiting hours was dark and locked up now。 Its size had told her that at sight； it was just a daytime niche。
She turned and tried to go back along the way she had e just now。 One faltering step was all she could manage。 Her courage failed her。 She couldn't do it。 She couldn't go back into that maw of darkness behind her that she had passed through once already。 True； it was as dark ahead of her； but there was something even worse about darkness revisited than about darkness already explored。 As though she would be giving latent evil a second chance at her if she returned。 That dolorously crooning wind was ing from back there。 The trees were rustling and hissing； like living things stalking her； from back there。
She heeled her hands to her eyes； held them tightly pressed there to try to shut out the terrible sights she had not seen yet； but was afraid she might have to see at any minute。 Her teeth were chattering with terror； and with the nervous chill induced by it。 She took her hands away from her eyes at length； and found she had begun to move again； without knowing it； in the meantime。 Slowly now； uncertainly； erratically； without purpose or destination。 She was meandering down the center of the avenue； with the wavering gait of someone about to drop in a heap at any moment。 Still in the direction in which she had been going all along； for she could still go forward if not back。 Her jerky； unpredictable progress was that of something bereft of all reason。 Which； temporarily； she was。
A bench edged up beside her along the perimeter of the lane； bleached white； cadaverous against the gloom； like something with an invisible spotlight trained on it。 She turned aside； fell rather than walked over to it； and； as though its presence and support were some sort of emotional release； flung the upper part of her body prone against the seat of it； legs trailing out behind her along the ground； and exploded into a cataclysm of sobbing that was so violent it couldn't by its very nature have lasted long without rendering her unconscious。
It didn't。 She stopped again； from sheer rib stricture and breath stoppage； and remained there quiescent。 But not unaware。 Fear was creeping back over her again； like a thin glazed coating； even while she huddled there without moving。 It touched off reflex action； finally。 She scissored her legs suddenly； like a swimmer on dry ground； switched her head around； looked behind her。 The instinctive reaction of those