"Even Rip is at fault," Julian said to himself. But as the words ran
through his mind, the little dog grew suddenly calmer. It dropped the
hesitating paw, again licked the face, then nestled quietly into the
space between Valentine's left breast and arm, rested its chin on the
latter, and with blinking eyes prepared evidently for repose. A wild
hope came again to Julian.
"Valentine is not dead," he said to himself. "He is in some strange
hypnotic trance. Presently he will recover from it. He will be well.
Thank God! Thank God! I will watch!"
And so he kept an attentive and hopeful vigil, his eyes always upon
Valentine's face, his hand always touching Valentine's. Already life
seemed blossoming anew with an inexplicable radiance. Valentine would
speak once more, would come back from this underworld of the senses.
And Julian's hand closed on his cold hand with a warm, impulsive
strength, as if it might be possible to draw him back physically to
consciousness and to speech. But there was no answer. And again Julian
was assailed with doubts. Yet the dog slept on happily, a hostage to
peace.
Julian never knew how long that vigil lasted. It might have been five
minutes, or a lifetime. The vehemence of his mental debate slew his
power of observation of normal things.
Pages:
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127