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In the darkness he struggled blindly to his feet; and he saw the stars through the glass roof all ablaze in the midnight sky; saw the infernal flicker of pale flames in the obscurity around him, heard a voice calling for help–his own voice–

Then something stirred in the darkness; he listened, stared, striving to pierce the obscurity with fevered eyes.

Long since the cloths that swathed the clay figures in the studio had dried out unnoticed by him. He gazed from one to another, holding his breath. Then his eyes rested upon the altar piece, fell on the snowy foot, were lifted inch by inch along the marble folds upward slowly to the slim and child-like hands–

“Oh, God!” he whispered, knowing he had gone mad at last.

For, under the carven fingers, the marble folds of the robe over the heart were faintly glowing from some inward radiance. And, as he reeled forward and dropped at the altar foot, lifting his burning eyes, he saw the child-like head bend toward him from the slender neck–saw that the eyes were faintly blue–

“Mother of God!” he screamed, “my mind is dying–my mind is dying! … We were boys, he and I…. Let God judge him…. Let him be judged… mercifully…. I am worse than he…. There is no hell. I have striven to fashion one–I have desired to send him thither–Mother of God–Cecile–“

Under his fevered eyes he was confusing them, now, and he sank down close against the pedestal and laid his f ace against her small cold foot.

“I am sick,” he rambled on–“and very tired…. We were boys together, Cecile…. When I am in my right mind I would not harm him…. He was so handsome and daring. There was nothing he dared not do…. So young, and straight, and daring…. I would not harm him. Or you, Cecile…. Only I am sick, burning out, with only a crippled mind left–from being badly hurt–It never got well. … And now it is dying of its hurt–Cecile!–Mother of God!–before it dies I do forgive him–and ask forgiveness–for Christ’s sake–“

Toward noon the janitor broke in the door.

VII

It was late in December before Drene opened his eyes in his right senses. He unclosed them languidly, gazed at the footboard of his bed, then, around at the four shabby walls of his room.

“Cecile?” he said, distinctly.

The girl who had been watching him laid aside her sewing, rose, and bent over him. Suddenly her pale face flushed and one hand flew to her throat.

“Dearest?” he said, inquiringly.

Then down on her knees fell the girl, and groped for his wasted hand and laid her cheek on it, crying silently.

As for Drene, he lay there, his hollow eyes roaming from wall to wall. At last he turned his head on the pillow and looked down at her.

The next day when he opened his eyes from a light sleep his skin was moist and cool and he managed to move his hand toward hers as she bent over him.

“I want–Graylock,” he whispered. The girl flushed, bent nearer, gazing at him intently.

“Graylock,” he repeated.

“Not now,” she murmured, “not today. Rest for a while.”

“Please,” he said, looking up at her trustfully–“Graylock. Now.”

“When you are well–“

“I am–well. Please, dear.”

For a while she continued sitting there on the side of his bed, his limp hands in hers, her lips pressed against them. But he never took his eyes from her, and in them she saw only the same wistful expression, unchanging, trustful that she would do his bidding.

So at last she went into the studio and wrote a note to Graylock. It was late. She went downstairs to the janitor’s quarters where there was a messenger call. But no messenger came probably Christmas day kept them busy. Perhaps, too, some portion of the holiday was permitted them, for it was long after dinner and the full tide of gaiety in town was doubtless at its flood.