* * * * *
Julian's thoughts broke upon the doctor fiercely, and swept him from his
contemplation of Cuckoo. No drowsy poppy-bed was Julian's. The shadowy
spirit of sleep strove not to influence him. No opiates gave him peace.
No veil of gentle forgetfulness descended upon him. He was a human being
plunged in the deepest abyss of fate, beneath the range of the starlight
and the gaze of other worlds. He was trembling, stretching out his feeble
hands in the blackness for guidance, sick with apprehension, betrayed,
deluded. And now he began to writhe in the grasp of a new terror, for it
seemed to the doctor that he, too, was conscious of the obstinate spirit
that stood beside Cuckoo, and that he dreaded the approach of his doom in
her slumber. He, too, murmured silently, "Will she sleep? Will she
sleep?" If indeed she slept at the word of Valentine--Julian's last hope
was gone. For he had now concentrated himself almost utterly on Cuckoo.
No longer did he draw near to her half in awe, half in derision, led to
her by the presence of the flame that flickered, something strangely
apart from her, in her sad eyes. No longer did he set her and the flame
apart. To him she was the flame, the only refuge, the only safety.
Pages:
729
730
731
732
733
734
735
736
737
738
739
740
741
742
743
744
745
746
747
748
749
750
751
752
753