Portlaw hung over it as though hypnotized; Tressilvain had fallen to moistening his lips with the tip of his tongue, stealthy eyes always roaming about the candle-lit room as though searching for something uncanny lurking in the shadows.
Shiela shivered, wide-eyed, as she sat watching the table which was now snapping and cracking and heaving under her gaze.

A slow fear of the thing crept over her--of this senseless, lifeless mass of wood, fashioned by human hands.

The people around it, the room, the house were becoming horrible to her; she loathed them and what they were doing.
A ripping crash brought her to her feet; everybody sprang up.

Under their hands the table was shuddering convulsively.

Suddenly it split open as though rent by a bolt, and fell like a live thing in agony, a mass of twisted fibres protruding like viscera from its shattered core.
Stunned silence; and Malcourt turned to his sister and spoke in a low voice, but she only shook her head, shivering, and stared at the wreck of wood as though revolted.
"W-what happened ?" faltered Portlaw, bewildered.
"I don't know," said Malcourt unsteadily.
"Don't know! Look at that table! Why, man, it's--it's _dying_!" Tressilvain stood as though stupefied.