Her piteous arms, empty of the babe, suggested motherhood
to boys fresh from home; and there were moments when this hovering
Nike seemed to breathe a mysterious tenderness like hers--became a
proud and splendid angel of consolation--only, indeed, to resume,
with some fresh change in the shadows, its pagan indifference, its
exultant loneliness.
The Squire sat by the fire, staring into the redness of the logs.
Occasionally nurse or doctor would come and whisper to him. He
scarcely seemed to hear them. What was the good of talking? He
knew that Desmond was doomed--that his boy's noble body was
shattered--and the end could only be a question of days--possibly
a week. During the first nights of Desmond's sufferings, the
Squire had lived through what had seemed an eternity of torment.
Now there was no more agony. Morphia could be freely given--and
would be given till all was over. The boy's young strength was
resisting splendidly, a vitality so superb was hard to beat; but
beaten it would be, by the brutality of the bullet which had
inflicted an internal injury past repair, against which the energy
of the boy's youth might hold out for a few days--not more.
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