his nerves. Thin tears fell over his
hollow cheeks; and he rose shakily, fiercely dragging at his bandanna.

But he discovered that his hand was numb with cold. The fire lay black
and dead. The shrilling wind, ladened with snow, wrenched at the
shutters. The room was bitter. He must get up to bed ... warm blankets.
A chill touched him with an icy breath. It overtook him midway on the
stair, and he clung to the railing, appalled at its violence in his
fragile being. He got, finally, to his room, to the edge of his bed,
where he sat waiting for the assault to subside. He wanted Rudolph, but
the effort to move to the door, call, appeared insuperable. The chill
left him; and blundering, hideously delayed, he wrapped himself in the
bed covering.

Not all the wool in the world, he thought, would be sufficient to drive
the cold from his body. He fell into a temporary exhaustion of sleep;
but was waked later by sharp and oppressive pains in his chest,
deepening when he breathed. The suffering must be mastered, and he lay
with gripping hands, striving by force of will to overcome what he
thought of as the brutal play of small, sharp knives. 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