Why had he been
so blind, so deceived? He might have protected Julian. But he, too, had
been a foolish victim of outward beauty, the prey of the glory of a face.
He had not read the book of the heart. And other pictures succeeded this
vision of the streets and of the shadows that walk in them by night. He
saw Valentine singing while he and Julian listened. And the eyes of
Valentine were as the eyes of a saint, but now he knew that behind them
crouched a soul that was filled with evil. Slowly the air grew heavy.
Slumber paced in the tiny room. The doctor struggled against it. But the
colours of the brain-pictures faded. He saw them still, but only as one
sees the world in a fog; looming forms that have lost their true
character, that have assumed a vagueness of mystery, outlines at once
heavy and remote, suggestive yet indefinite. And still the spirit of
sleep keep vigil by Cuckoo.
* * * * *
There was a slight hoarse cry in the night.
"What is that?" Valentine said, sharply.
There was no reply. The doctor could have told him that the cry came from
Julian, and that the lady of the feathers, leaning low in her chair, had
passed from consciousness into insensibility.
The spirit of sleep stole away.
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