In reply to his
greeting she merely nodded, and then walked slowly to the window and
turned her back to him.
It was a one-tone landscape. Sky, hills, barns, earth, all was a single
mass of lifeless grey; in such an atmosphere old Homer had seen the
wraiths of his dead heroes play again at the things they had done on
earth. She noted these things with a blank eye, for a thousand thoughts
were leaping through her mind. Something must be done. There he lay in
the same room with her. He had turned his head back, no doubt, and was
staring at the ceiling as before, and the yellow glimmer was in his eyes
again. Perhaps, after this day, she should never see him again; every
moment was precious beyond the price of gold, and yet there she stood at
the window, doing nothing. But what _could_ she do?
Should she go to him and fall on her knees beside him and pour out her
heart, telling him again of the old days. No, it would be like striking
on a wooden bell; no echo would rise; and she knew beforehand the deadly
blackness of his eyes. So Black Bart lay often in the sun, staring at
infinite distance and seeing nothing but his dreams of battle. What were
appeals and what were words to Black Bart? What were they to Dan Barry?
Yet once, by sitting still--the thought made her blood leap with a
great, joyous pulse that set her cheeks tingling.
She waited till the first impulse of excitement had subsided, and then
turned back and sat down in a chair near the fire.
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