Then he would suddenly revert to the matter of the food I withheld
from him, praying, begging, weeping, at last threatening.  He began to
raise his voice--I prayed him not to.  He perceived a hold on me--he
threatened he would shout and bring the Martians upon us.  For a time
that scared me; but any concession would have shortened our chance of
escape beyond estimating.  I defied him, although I felt no assurance
that he might not do this thing.  But that day, at any rate, he did
not.  He talked with his voice rising slowly, through the greater part
of the eighth and ninth days--threats, entreaties, mingled with a
torrent of half-sane and always frothy repentance for his vacant sham
of God's service, such as made me pity him.  Then he slept awhile, and
began again with renewed strength, so loudly that I must needs make
him desist.