He set the shirt-bundle in the water and leaned wearily against a slimy wall. If the idea of abandoning his hideout underground had been broached to him at that moment, if someone had told him to go back aboveground and face whatever charges were waiting to be placed against him, he could have done so with the humbleness of a chastened child; sheer physical weariness had rendered him will-less. Feeling a desire to sleep more than any ambition to explore further the strange reaches of consciousness which had gained such a mysterious hold upon him, he sighed and picked up the box and jar and waded again in the sliding, grey water. As he walked his eyelids drooped and his feet skidded over the slippery concrete bottom of the sewer and several times he had to bring himself to a state of sharp alertness to keep from tumbling headlong into the scummy current. He passed a manhole and heard rumbling noises of traffic above him, but paid it no heed; life aboveground was now something less than reality, less than sight or sound, less even than memory. . . .

He came fully awake only when he reached the passageway leading to the dirt cave. He pushed the bundle into the opening and shoved it forward, climbed in head first and slithered along on his stomach, his hands stretched before him. He used his fingers to propel his body forward by catching hold of the pipe above him and each time he jerked himself forward he pushed the bundle with his head. When he came to the cave he tossed the bundle and heard the rings tingling against the metal sides of the box as they struck the ground beyond. He pulled himself through and stood immobile for a moment in the darkness, then groped his way along the wall until he reached the tool box; he yawned, rubbed his eyes and lay upon the ground. He gave a long gasp and went to sleep.

VI

As he slept something irritated him. He was once on the verge of waking but his tired body told him to go back to sleep. An hour later he sat bolt upright, listening intently, his heart pounding. Hovering between sleeping and waking, he heard a ceaseless murmur, like a muffled hum. His sleepiness made him confused and he looked about in the darkness, trying to locate the sound. Yes, it was coming from beyond the wall. No doubt the church members had gathered there, just as once he had gathered with others in Reverend Davis’ church to sing and pray. Then the muscles of his body jerked taut as a loud, surging hymn broke forth, sonorous and magnificent in its expression of melancholy renunciation. Involuntarily, he rose to his feet, as though rising to meet his fate. Surrounded by darkness, groggy from lack of sleep, he could not resist the tides of melody that drenched him. He felt within himself a vast and old conviction seeking to rise again. It was as though he had forgotten something and, in the act of trying to remember it, could not; but still the memory lingered. He shrank with fear from this nameless feeling that was trying to capture him, for he felt that it possessed such unlimited power that, once its prisoner, he would never be free again. Violently agitated, he took a few involuntary steps forward in the dark to escape what he felt to be a physical presence bearing down unremittingly upon him. His lips and teeth were open and his eyes stared unblinkingly. A low moan broke from him and his knees buckled and he pitched forward on his stomach, his face on the ground, his fingers clawing weakly in the loose dirt.