by M.T.
The dawn was come when I laid the Manuscript
aside. The rain had almost ceased, the world was gray and
sad, the exhausted storm was sighing and sobbing itself to
rest. I went to the stranger’s room, and listened at his
door, which was slightly ajar. I could hear his voice, and so
I knocked. There was no answer, but I still heard the
voice. I peeped in. The man lay on his back in bed,
talking brokenly but with spirit, and punctuating with his arms,
which he thrashed about, restlessly, as sick people do in
delirium. I slipped in softly and bent over him. His
mutterings and ejaculations went on. I spoke—merely a word,
to call his attention. His glassy eyes and his ashy face were
alight in an instant with pleasure, gratitude, gladness,
welcome:
“Oh, Sandy, you are come at last—how I have
longed for you! Sit by me—do not leave me—never leave me
again, Sandy, never again. Where is your hand?—give it me,
dear, let me hold it—there —now all is well, all is peace, and I
am happy again—we are happy again, isn’t it so,
Sandy? You are so dim, so vague, you are but a mist, a cloud,
but you are here, and that is blessedness sufficient; and
I have your hand; don’t take it away—it is for only a little
while, I shall not require it long… . Was that the child?…
Hello-Central!… she doesn’t answer. Asleep,
perhaps? Bring her when she wakes, and let me touch her
hands, her face, her hair, and tell her good-bye… .
Sandy! Yes, you are there. I lost myself a moment, and
I thought you were gone… . Have I been sick long? It
must be so; it seems months to me. And such dreams! such
strange and awful dreams, Sandy! Dreams that were as real as
reality—delirium, of course, but so real! Why, I
thought the king was dead, I thought you were in Gaul and couldn’t
get home, I thought there was a revolution; in the fantastic frenzy
of these dreams, I thought that Clarence and I and a handful of my
cadets fought and exterminated the whole chivalry of England!
But even that was not the strangest. I seemed to be a
creature out of a remote unborn age, centuries hence, and even
that was as real as the rest! Yes, I seemed to have
flown back out of that age into this of ours, and then forward to
it again, and was set down, a stranger and forlorn in that strange
England, with an abyss of thirteen centuries yawning between me and
you! between me and my home and my friends! between me and all that
is dear to me, all that could make life worth the living! It
was awful —awfuler than you can ever imagine, Sandy. Ah,
watch by me, Sandy —stay by me every moment—don’t let me
go out of my mind again; death is nothing, let it come, but not
with those dreams, not with the torture of those hideous dreams—I
cannot endure that again… . Sandy?… ”
He lay muttering incoherently some little time;
then for a time he lay silent, and apparently sinking away toward
death. Presently his fingers began to pick busily at the
coverlet, and by that sign I knew that his end was at hand with the
first suggestion of the death-rattle in his throat he started up
slightly, and seemed to listen: then he said:
“A bugle?… It is the king! The
drawbridge, there! Man the battlements!—turn out the—”
He was getting up his last “effect”; but he
never finished it.
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