th suspicious
brilliancy. To the dismay of Bianca--who sat as far out of sight as
possible, lest he should see her, and fancy that she was doing him a
service--he pursued his thoughts aloud:

"Words--words--they have taken away brotherhood!" Bianca shuddered,
listening to that uncanny sound. "'In those days of words they called it
death--pale death--mors pallida. They saw that word like a gigantic
granite block suspended over them, and slowly coming down. Some, turning
up their faces at the sight, trembled painfully, awaiting their
obliteration. Others, unable, while they still lived, to face the
thought of nothingness, inflated by some spiritual wind, and thinking
always of their individual forms, called out unceasingly that those
selves of theirs would and must survive this word--that in some fashion,
which no man could understand, each self-conscious entity reaccumulated
after distribution. Drunk with this thought, these, too, passed away.
Some waited for it with grim, dry eyes, remarking that the process was
molecular, and thus they also met their so-called death.'"

His voice ceased, and in place of it rose the sound of his tongue
moistening his palate. Bianca, from behind, placed a glass of
barley-water to his lips. He drank it with a slow, clucking noise; then,
seeing that a hand held the glass, said: "Is that you? Are you ready for
me? Follow. 'In those days no one leaped up to meet pale riding Death;
no one saw in her face that she was brotherhood incarnate; no one with a
heart as light as gossamer kissed her feet, and, smiling, passed into the
Universe.'" His voice died away, and when next he spoke it was in a
quick, husky whisper: "I must--I must--I must---" There was silence;
then he added: "Give me my trousers."

Bianca placed them by his bed. The sight seemed to reassure him. He was
once more silent.

For more than an hour after this he was so absolutely still that Bianca
rose continually to look at him. Each time, his eyes, wide open, were
fixed on a little dark mark across the ceiling; his face had a look of
the most singular determination, as though his spirit were slowly,
relentlessly, regaining mastery over his fevered body. He spoke suddenly:

"Who is there?"

"Bianca."

"Help me out of bed!"

The flush had left his face, the brilliance had faded from his eyes; he
looked just like a ghost. With a sort of terror Bianca helped him out of
bed. This weird display of mute white w