And as this doubt, which was a faith, blossomed within him he had a fancy that the music of the Litany wavered, faltered—­that through it ran a thrill like a faint shadow of some dull despair.

At this moment Valentine spoke in the darkness.

“What are you doing, Julian?” he asked, quickly.

“Nothing,” Julian answered.

“I heard you whisper.”

“I only said something to Cuckoo.”

“We must not talk.  Let us link our fingers instead of only touching each other.”

They all did so and were silent once more.

* * * * *

And now a fear seized the doctor.  He became aware that a drowsy spirit like the little sandman who threw the dust of slumber into the eyes of the children stole round the circle.  In his hands were poppy-seeds and opiates, and his touch was magical with sleep.  Valentine had surely evoked him by a strange effort of will.  He came, and his feet were shod so that he moved without noise.  He filled the atmosphere with heaviness, and with a murmurous melody, like the melody of the drooping streams that hang their silver ribands over the hills of the far Lotus land.  Passing the doctor, he stole to the place where Cuckoo sat between Julian and Valentine.  And then he paused.  The doctor divined his mission, to weave a veil and cast a cloud of sleep around the lady of the feathers.  The weariness of Cuckoo’s life lay like a burden upon her, a heavy burden to-night, despite the wild wakefulness of her spirit, the passion of her answered love, the strength of her resolution, the purity that drew near to her at last with ivory wings along the miry ways.  She, who was at last awake, and conscious of the glory of a woman’s will to rescue and to shelter, was to sleep again.  The sentinel was to be overcome at her post, that the enemy might penetrate the lines and seize the citadel.  How heavy the air was!  To the doctor it seemed alive with sleep, as the waters of the great sea are alive with death for the sailor who sinks down in them.  He saw the weaving of the veil that was dropping gently round Cuckoo.  He saw the cloud shrouding her in a scarcely palpable mist.  Or was it his dream?  Or was it his fancy?  For it was dark.  There stood the tiny, obstinate spirit by Cuckoo’s side.  His hands touched her forehead, and touched her white and weary eyelids, and the doctor knew that all the fatigues of her life trooped together, as at a word of command, and came upon her to conquer her.  They pressed round, nameless wearinesses induced by acts which had made Cuckoo that which she was.  And they seemed to whisper to her:  “You cannot fight.  You cannot protect—­it is all over.  You can only sleep—­you can only sleep.  Sleep!  You are so weary.  Sleep, for life, which has taken everything else from you, has left you that.”  Cuckoo’s face was white with the story of her life, and with the wonder of her recent self-denial, and with the