The singer picked up his guitar and leant on the railings. He was shaken
and faint. Something seemed amiss with his left hand. He laid his
forehead against the cool iron and drew a deep breath, muttering--
"It was she! When I heard her cold, cruel voice I thanked God I am as I
am. Thank God for my child and a sacred memory----"
"Are you hurt?" asked a friendly voice.
The singer looked up to see a man standing hatless above him on the
steps of the house. He strove to reply, but his tongue refused to act;
he swayed while rolling waves of blackness encompassed him. He
staggered blindly forward, then sank into darkness--and for him time was
not.
When consciousness returned his eyes opened upon a glint of firelight, a
shaded lamp on a table by which sat a man with bent head writing. It was
a fine head, large and massive, the hair full and crisp. A rugged hand
grasped the pen with decision, and there was no hesitation in its rapid
movement.
The singer lay for a moment watching the bent head, when it suddenly
turned, and a pair of remarkably keen grey eyes met his own.
"Ah, you are better! That's right!" Rising, the writer went to a
cupboard against the wall, whence he brought a decanter and glass.
"I am a doctor," he said kindly. "Luckily I was handy, or you might have
had a bad fall."
The singer tried to rise.
"Don't move for a few moments," continued the doctor, holding a glass to
his lips.
Pages:
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206