His work was accomplished. Julian sank
forward upon the table with a gesture of utter abnegation. He thought
that Cuckoo was dead. He felt that she was dead, as long ago he had felt
that his loved friend, that Valentine who had protected him and taught
him the right way of life, was dead in the night.
Doctor Levillier seemed to see Rip crouching down against the wall.
And now Valentine's will prepared to assert itself finally. It rose up to
triumph as it had risen up to triumph over Rip. Was that struggle going
to be repeated? Nothing had intruded upon it except the marvellous
tenacity of the dog, who had died rather than yield obedience, died
fighting. That tenacity surely did not dwell in the nerveless Julian,
utterly despairing, utterly wrecked.
The doctor trembled, feeling that the close of the strange mystery was
at hand. And as he trembled he seemed to see in the dense darkness a
tiny flame. It shivered up in the blackness where Cuckoo slept, moved
away from her, like a thing blown on a light wind, and flickered above
the bowed, despairing head of Julian. And, as he watched it, wondering,
the doctor was conscious once more that there was a new presence in the
room, something mysterious, intent, vehement, yet touched with a strange
and pathetic helplessness, something that cried against itself, something
that had suffered a martyrdom unknown, unequalled, in all the pale
history of the martyrdoms of the world.
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