He doubted the eternity of the triumph of
this Valentine, though he knew not why he doubted, nor upon what his
doubts were based.
And as this doubt, which was a faith, blossomed within him he had a fancy
that the music of the Litany wavered, faltered--that through it ran a
thrill like a faint shadow of some dull despair.
At this moment Valentine spoke in the darkness.
"What are you doing, Julian?" he asked, quickly.
"Nothing," Julian answered.
"I heard you whisper."
"I only said something to Cuckoo."
"We must not talk. Let us link our fingers instead of only touching each
other."
They all did so and were silent once more.
* * * * *
And now a fear seized the doctor. He became aware that a drowsy spirit
like the little sandman who threw the dust of slumber into the eyes of
the children stole round the circle. In his hands were poppy-seeds and
opiates, and his touch was magical with sleep. Valentine had surely
evoked him by a strange effort of will. He came, and his feet were shod
so that he moved without noise. He filled the atmosphere with heaviness,
and with a murmurous melody, like the melody of the drooping streams that
hang their silver ribands over the hills of the far Lotus land.
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