The doctor recalled the sitting
of the former night and his impression then--and again he was governed by
the tragedy of this unknown soul. Its despair laid upon him cold hands.
Its impotence crushed him. He could have wept and prayed for it. This was
for a moment. Then a new wonder grew in him. His eyes were on the flame
which burned above the bowed head of Julian, and presently, while he
gazed, he seemed to see, beyond and through it--as one who peers through
a lit window--the face of Valentine, the beautiful, calm, lofty Valentine
whom once he had loved. The face was white with a soft glory of
endurance, and the eyes smiled like the eyes of a great king. And the
doctor knew comfort. For this face, although marred by the shadow intense
suffering ever leaves behind it, was instinct with the majesty of
triumph. And the eyes were bent on Julian. Then Julian moved in the
darkness and looked upward, despair seeking hope.
The man who sat by the doctor, and who was now nameless to him, was
filled with a passionate fury. The doctor heard the Litany of his glory
cease, and the long pulse of his heart throbbing with effort. His soul
rose up, as the cruel spectre of the new Valentine had risen up to seize
upon Rip, and moved towards Julian to dominate him finally, to draw him
into its own eternal evil and pride and passion of degraded power.
Pages:
734
735
736
737
738
739
740
741
742
743
744
745
746
747
748
749
750
751
752
753
754
755
756
757
758