And
now--now--"
The thought of the bridge, of Marchand's devilish design, shot into his
mind, and once more he was shaken. "The bridge! Blind! Mother!" he called
in a voice twisted in an agony which only those can feel to whom life's
purposes are even more than life itself. Then, with a moan, he became
unconscious, and his head rolled over against Rockwell's cheek. The damp
of his brow was as the damp of death as Rockwell's lips touched it.
"Old boy, old boy!" Rockwell said tenderly, "I wish it had been me
instead. Life means so much to you--and so little to me. I've seen too
much, and you've only just begun to see."
Laying him gently down, Rockwell summoned the nurse and Jim Beadle and
spoke to them in low tones. "He knows now, and it has hit him hard, but
not so hard that he won't stiffen to it. It might have been worse."
He gave instructions as to the care that should be taken, and replaced
the bandages on the eyes. It was, however, long before Ingolby was
restored to consciousness, and when it came, Rockwell put to his lips a
cooling drink containing a powerful opiate. Ingolby drank it without
protest and in silence. He was like one whose sense of life was automatic
and of an inner rather than an outer understanding.
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