His head was bowed. His lips moved silently. Julian saw that
he was praying, and sprang up fiercely. All the frost of his senses
thawed in a moment. He seized Levillier by the shoulders.
"Don't pray!" he cried out; "don't pray. Curse! Curse as I do! If he's
dead you shall not pray. You shall not! You shall not!"
The little doctor drew him down to his knees.
"Julian, hush! My science tells me Valentine is dead."
Julian opened his white lips, but the doctor, with a motion, silenced
him, and added, pointing to Rip, who still lay happily by his master's
side:
"But that dog seems to tell me he is alive; that this is some strangely
complete and perfect simulation of death, some unnatural sleep of the
senses. Pray, pray with me that Valentine may wake."
And, kneeling by his friend, with bent head, Julian strove to pray. The
answer to that double prayer pierced the two men. It was so instant, and
so bizarre, fighting against probability, yet heralding light, and the
end of that night's pale circumstances.
Rip, relapsing quickly from his perfunctory smile on the doctor, had
again fallen asleep with an evident exceeding confidence and comfort,
snoring his way into an apparent peace that passed all understanding.
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