It was forced
laughter, not artificial exactly, but mirthless.
"There's nothing here!" he shouted, holding his sides.
"Bread, I mean."
"It's gone. There is no bread. They've taken it!"
I dropped the long spoon and ran up. Everything the sack had contained lay
upon the ground-sheet, but there was no loaf.
The whole dead weight of my growing fear fell upon me and shook me. Then I
burst out laughing too. It was the only thing to do: and the sound of my
laughter also made me understand his. The stain of psychical pressure
caused it--this explosion of unnatural laughter in both of us; it was an
effort of repressed forces to seek relief; it was a temporary safety-valve.
And with both of us it ceased quite suddenly.
"How criminally stupid of me!" I cried, still determined to be consistent
and find an explanation. "I clean forgot to buy a loaf at Pressburg. That
chattering woman put everything out of my head, and I must have left it
lying on the counter or--"
"The oatmeal, too, is much less than it was this morning," the Swede
interrupted.
Why in the world need he draw attention to it? I thought angrily.
"There's enough for tomorrow," I said, stirring vigorously, "and we can get
lots more at Komorn or Gran. In twenty-four hours we shall be miles from
here."
"I hope so--to God," he muttered, putting the things back into the sack,
"unless we're claimed first as victims for the sacrifice," he added with a
foolish laugh. He dragged the sack into the tent, for safety's sake, I
suppose, and I heard him mumbling to himself, but so indistinctly that it
seemed quite natural for me to ignore his words.
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