He conquered, it
seemed; the pain grew less; but it had left an increasing difficulty in
his breathing; it was a labour to absorb sufficient air even for his
small, aged demands. Sleep deserted him; and he waited through seeming
years for the delayed appearance of dawn. He had hoped that the new day
would be sunny, warm; it was overcast, he could see the snow drifted in
the lower window panes.
Rudolph usually knocked at the door at half past eight; but, apparently,
to-day he had forgot. Howat Penny's watch lay on the table, at his hand,
yet it was far distant; he couldn't face the heavy effort of its
inspection. At last the man came in with his even morning greeting.
Howat was so exhausted that he could make no reply; and Rudolph moved
silently to the bedside. His expression, for an instant, was deeply
concerned. "I have a cold, or something of the sort," the other said. He
raised his head, but sank back, with a thin, audible inspiration. "It
would be best, sir, to have the doctor from Jaffa," the servant
suggested. Howat, in the midst of protest, closed his eyes; the pain had
returned. When he had again defeated it Rudolph was gone.
The room blurred, lost its walls, became formless space; out of which,
to his pleasurable surprise, he saw the carefully garbed figure of
Colonel Mapleson walking toward him.
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