To-night those little ghosts were laid. They came not. It
seemed that Valentine had conquered them. No longer did they crowd to
hear the bold fury of the Litany. No longer dared even one to creep along
alone to bend and to listen. The doctor knew then that this night was not
destined to be a mere echo of its fore-runner. It was at first as if
Valentine had closed the rift in his lute, had bridged the gulf between
his trial and his triumph. A tremendous sadness came upon the doctor with
this thought, enveloping him in a cloud of cold. His heart fainted within
him, as at some great catastrophe. He could have wept like a man who
finds the trust of his life ill-founded, the faith in which he has dwelt
builded upon the quicksand. He fancied that Valentine instantly became
aware of his distress, and that the knowledge swelled the mighty tide of
the music of the Litany. And this thought struck him and roused the man
in him, like the call of circumstance on valour, crying: "Will a man say
that anything is irrevocable, while there is breath in him to give the
battle-cry, strength in him to stir a limb?" Then the faintness left him
with the demeanour of that which is ashamed. The cold cloud evaporated.
He heard the Litany without fear, but with a great desire to strike a
lightning silence through it, with a fine hatred that destroyed his
former hopelessness.
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