Bianca, from behind, placed a glass of
barley-water to his lips. He drank it with a slow, clucking noise; then,
seeing that a hand held the glass, said: "Is that you? Are you ready for
me? Follow. 'In those days no one leaped up to meet pale riding Death;
no one saw in her face that she was brotherhood incarnate; no one with
a heart as light as gossamer kissed her feet, and, smiling, passed into
the Universe.'" His voice died away, and when next he spoke it was in
a quick, husky whisper: "I must--I must--I must---" There was silence;
then he added: "Give me my trousers."
Bianca placed them by his bed. The sight seemed to reassure him. He was
once more silent.
For more than an hour after this he was so absolutely still that Bianca
rose continually to look at him. Each time, his eyes, wide open, were
fixed on a little dark mark across the ceiling; his face had a look
of the most singular determination, as though his spirit were slowly,
relentlessly, regaining mastery over his fevered body. He spoke
suddenly:
"Who is there?"
"Bianca."
"Help me out of bed!"
The flush had left his face, the brilliance had faded from his eyes; he
looked just like a ghost. With a sort of terror Bianca helped him out of
bed. This weird display of mute white will-power was unearthly.
When he was dressed in his woollen gown and seated before the fire, she
gave him a cup of strong beef-tea, with brandy.
Pages:
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277