Loneliness and desolation descended like a cloud over Julian when he had gone, for the frank belief of the boy, who cared nothing, struck like an arrow of truth to his heart, who cared everything.  Was Valentine indeed dead?  He would not believe it, for such a belief would bring the world in ruins about his feet.  Such a belief would people his soul with phantoms of despair and of wickedness.  Could he not cry out against God in blasphemy, if God took his friend from him?  The tears rushed into his eyes, as he sat waiting there in the night.  As before a drowning man, scenes of the last five years flashed before him, painted in vital colours,—­scenes of his life with Valentine,—­then scenes of all that might have been had he never met Valentine, never known his strange mastering influence.  Could that influence have been given only to be withdrawn?  Of all the inexplicable things of life the most inexplicable are the abrupt intrusions and disappearances of those lovely manifestations which give healing to tired hearts, to the wounded soldiers of the campaign of the world.  Why are they not permitted to stay?  Bitterly Julian asked that question.  Of all the men whom he knew, only Valentine did anything for him.  Must Valentine, of all men, be the one who might not stay with him?  The rest he could spare.  He could not spare Valentine.  He could not.  The impotence of his patience tortured him physically, like a disease.  He sprang up from his chair.  He must do something at once to know the truth.  What could he do?  He had no knowledge of medicine.  He could not tabulate physical indications, and he would not trust to his infernal instinct.  For it was that which cried to him again and again, “Valentine is dead.”  What—­what could he do?

A thought darted into his mind.  Dogs are miraculously instinctive.  Rip might know what he did not certainly know, might divine the truth.  He ran into Valentine’s bedroom.

“Rip,” he cried; “Rip!”

The little dog sprang from its lonely sleep and accompanied Julian energetically to the tentroom.  Observing Valentine’s attitude, it sprang upon the couch beside him, licked his white face eagerly, then, gaining no response, showed hesitation, alarm.  It began to investigate the body eagerly with its sharp nose, snuffing at head, shoulders, legs, feet.  Still it seemed in doubt, and paused at length with one fore foot planted on Valentine’s breast, the other raised in air.

“Even Rip is at fault,” Julian said to himself.  But as the words ran through his mind, the little dog grew suddenly calmer.  It dropped the hesitating paw, again licked the face, then nestled quietly into the space between Valentine’s left breast and arm, rested its chin on the latter, and with blinking eyes prepared evidently for repose.  A wild hope came again to Julian.

“Valentine is not dead,” he said to himself.  “He is in some strange hypnotic trance.  Presently he will recover from it.  He will be well.  Thank God!  Thank God!  I will watch!”