“A story of a man, a horse, and a dog.
I think I have seen the great chain which bound the
dog. Was that the place where they kept the horse?
“And, if so, what bonds are used for the man?
And what sort of man can he be? One of gigantic
size, no doubt, to mate his horse and his dog.
A fierce and intractable nature, for otherwise Kate
Cumberland could not dread him. And yet a man
of singular values, for all this place seems to wait
for his return. I catch the fire of expectancy.
It eats into my flesh. Dreams haunt me night
and day. What will be the end?
“Now I am going down to see Mr. Cumberland again.
I know what I shall see—the flickering
of the fire behind his eyes. The lightning glances,
the gentle, rare voice, the wasted face; and by him
will be Kate Cumberland; and they both will seem to
be listening, listening—for what?
“No more to-night. But, Loughburne, you
should be here; I feel that the like of this has never
been upon the earth.
“Byrne.”
SUSPENSE
He found them as he had expected, the girl beside
the couch, and the old man prone upon it, wrapped
to the chin in a gaudy Navajo blanket. But to-night
his eyes were closed, a most unusual thing, and Byrne
could look more closely at the aged face. For
on occasions when the eyes were wide, it was like
looking into the throat of a searchlight to stare at
the features—all was blurred. He discovered
now wrinkled and purple-stained lids under the deep
shadow of the brows—and eyes were so sunken
that there seemed to be no pupils there. Over
the cheek bones the skin was drawn so tightly that
it shone, and the cheeks fell away into cadaverous
hollows. But the lips, beneath the shag of grey
beard, were tightly compressed. No, this was
not sleep. It carried, as Byrne gazed, a connotation
of swifter, fiercer thinking, than if the gaunt old
man had stalked the floor and poured forth a tirade
of words.
The girl came to meet the doctor. She said:
“Will you use a narcotic?”
“Why?” asked Byrne. “He seems
more quiet than usual.”
“Look more closely,” she whispered.
And when he obeyed, he saw that the whole body of
Joe Cumberland quivered like an aspen, continually.
So the finger of the duellist trembles on the trigger
of his gun before he receives the signal to fire—a
suspense more terrible than the actual face of death.
“A narcotic?” she pleaded. “Something
to give him just one moment of full relaxation?”
“I can’t do it,” said Byrne.
“If his heart were a shade stronger, I should.
But as it is, the only thing that sustains him is the
force of his will-power. Do you want me to unnerve
the very strength which keeps him alive?”
She shuddered.
“Do you mean that if he sleeps it will be—death?”
“I have told you before,” said the doctor,
“that there are phases of this case which I
do not understand. I predict nothing with certainty.
But I very much fear that if your father falls into
a complete slumber he will never waken from it.
Once let his brain cease functioning and I fear that
the heart will follow suit.”
