Passing
the doctor, he stole to the place where Cuckoo sat between Julian and
Valentine. And then he paused. The doctor divined his mission, to weave
a veil and cast a cloud of sleep around the lady of the feathers. The
weariness of Cuckoo's life lay like a burden upon her, a heavy burden
to-night, despite the wild wakefulness of her spirit, the passion of
her answered love, the strength of her resolution, the purity that drew
near to her at last with ivory wings along the miry ways. She, who was at
last awake, and conscious of the glory of a woman's will to rescue and to
shelter, was to sleep again. The sentinel was to be overcome at her post,
that the enemy might penetrate the lines and seize the citadel. How heavy
the air was! To the doctor it seemed alive with sleep, as the waters of
the great sea are alive with death for the sailor who sinks down in them.
He saw the weaving of the veil that was dropping gently round Cuckoo. He
saw the cloud shrouding her in a scarcely palpable mist. Or was it his
dream? Or was it his fancy? For it was dark. There stood the tiny,
obstinate spirit by Cuckoo's side. His hands touched her forehead, and
touched her white and weary eyelids, and the doctor knew that all the
fatigues of her life trooped together, as at a word of command, and came
upon her to conquer her.
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