"Unconscious, and not a drop of wine or water with which to revive
her--not even a breath of fresh air, though the whole world is so full
of it!" he murmured, in despair.
He flew to the water-pitcher in a wild hope, and found there a few
spoonfuls which he had begged her to drink in the morning. She had
pretended to do so, but here it was untouched. So terrible was his own
thirst that his heart leaped at sight of it, but not for worlds would
he have appropriated even one small drop from his companion in misery.
Hastily pouring it into a glass, he pressed it against her lips,
moistening them gently until they parted, and a few drops of the
precious fluid passed between them and down her parched throat. A sigh
heaved her breast, and her eyes unclosed.
Eliot Van Zandt cried out in joy and relief, and laying her head back
against his arm, he gently forced her to swallow the remainder of the
water. It acted like a charm, for withdrawing her head from his arm,
she sat upright, and said, in a weak voice:
"I kept the water for you; I did not want to drink it."
"Nonsense, child; I am strong, and did not need it," lightly. "But do
you feel better now?"
"Much better; but I think I will lie down, monsieur, I feel so tired.
Is it bed-time yet?" trying to smile.
He looked at his watch by the light that was so feeble now that he
could scarcely see the hands moving across its face.
"Yes, it is bed-time. It is past ten o'clock," he said; then, with
hesitation: "Are you not too sick for me to leave you, child? I can sit
here and watch you while you sleep."
Within himself he thought sadly that the conventionalities of the world
were out of place now, when both were hovering on the border of the
Unknown Land. Why not sit beside the dying girl and soothe her last sad
hours?
But with a pensive smile she answered:
"No; go to your rest, dear friend. I shall do very well alone, but if I
feel ill again I will call you."
Thus dismissed, he wheeled his sofa, as usual, into the dark and gloomy
little passage outside the door. Then, lingering to press the little
hand and say good-night more tenderly than ever in the presentiment
that weighed upon him, she startled him by a shrill, frightened cry:
"Oh!"
The light had given one expiring flare and gone out, leaving them in
darkness.
"Are you afraid? Shall I leave my door ajar?" he asked, gently.
"No, no," she answered, quickly.
"Very well, then; but I shall not go to sleep. I shall lie awake to
guard you from any fancied danger," he said; and sighed, knowing that
there was nothing to fear save the grim, gaunt hunger-wolf.
He struck a match that he might smile once more, sadly but tenderly,
into the pale, patient face. She smiled bravely in return.
"My good friend, good-night," she said gently; and with a sigh he left
her to hold a patient, wakeful vigil outside her door.
Hours passed without a sound from the dark, inner chamber, where Marie
lay huddled among the pillows in feverish sleep. At last, dizziness
and weariness fairly conquered him; his head drooped to the arm of the
sofa, and he, too, slept.
It seemed scarce a minute since his heavy eyes had shut before he
started up with a confused cry. Had some one called his name?
Some sort of a sound certainly echoed in his ears; it resolved itself
into _her_ voice.
Marie's voice calling out loud and strange and incessant, with
incoherent words. He tore open the door wildly and struck one of his
precious matches.
She lay there among the pillows, with vacant, wide-open eyes fixed on
the ceiling, babbling in wild delirium of cool springs and fountains,
of summer showers, of falling dew, her parched lips panting with fever.
"Oh, my God! if the world were mine, I would give it for one draught of
water for my suffering little darling!" he cried aloud, with the agony
of a man's heart driven to bay.
The dim flame of the match died into darkness again, and he stood by
the bed, holding her hot little hand in his, listening in agony to her
delirious ravings.
"This is the cruelest hour of my life!" he muttered. "Death, when it
comes, will not be half so bitter."
By the aid of another match he looked at his watch. It was five
o'clock, and outside he knew that the day was near its dawn; but within
the chamber where he watched by the side of the dying girl all was
thick darkness and gloom, and his stock of matches was running so low
that he dared not light one as often as he wished.
Agonized thoughts kept him grim company while he stood listening to her
ravings for water to cool her poor parched tongue and lips.
Soon she would be dead, and her harrowing sufferings all over. Then
he would be alone with the dead girl until death mercifully came to
his release. Here they would lie, uncoffined and unburied for years,
moldering into dust, their cruel fate forever hidden from men. In his
far-off home his sisters would grieve for him awhile, then he would be
forgotten.
The tiny flame of another match flared into the air at six o'clock.
Her ravings had ceased, the hot flush had left her face, the little
palms were cool again. She lay with wide-open eyes upon the pillow,
breathing faintly--so faintly that he looked for every breath to be her
last.
In the anguish of that thought, a wild temptation came to him.
Somewhere he had read that debilitated invalids were strengthened
and restored to health by drinking the fresh, warm blood of newly
slaughtered beeves.
He tore open the blade of his knife and desperately punctured a vein in
his arm. The hot, red blood spurted like a fountain, and he caught it
in the wine-glass until it was full.
A handkerchief bound tightly about his arm stopped the bleeding of the
wound, and, with some difficulty in the darkness, and shuddering with
weakness and emotion, he lifted Marie's head on his arm and pressed the
glass to her lips.