“No; it is fear,” he murmured, releasing him, and walking into the tentroom.

Julian followed with a loud footstep, treading firmly.  Each step said to
Death, “You are not here.  You are not here.”

He stood at a little distance near the door, while Levillier approached Valentine and bent over him.  Rip woke up and curled his top lip in a terrier smile of welcome.  The doctor stroked his head, then lifted Valentine’s hand and held the wrist.  He dropped it, and threw a glance on Julian.  There was a scream of interrogation in Julian’s fixed eyes.  Doctor Levillier avoided it by dropping his own, and again turning his attention to the figure on the divan.  He undid Valentine’s shirt, bared the breast, and laid his hand on the heart, keeping it there for a long time.

“Fetch me a hand-glass,” he said to Julian.

Mechanically, Julian went into the bedroom, and groped in the dark upon the dressing-table.

“Well, have you got it?  Why don’t you turn up the light?”

“I don’t know,” Julian answered, drily.

Doctor Levillier saw that anxiety was beginning to unnerve him.  When the glass was found the doctor led Julian back to the tentroom and pushed him gently down in a chair.

“Keep quiet,” he said.  “And—­keep hoping.”

“There is—­there is—­hope?”

“Why not?”

Then the doctor held the little glass to Valentine’s lips.  The bright surface was not dimmed.  No breath of life tarnished it to dulness.  Again the doctor felt his heart, drew his eyelids apart, and carefully examined the eyes, then turned slowly round.

“Doctor—­doctor!” Julian whispered.  “Why do you turn away?  What are you going to do?”

Doctor Levillier made a gesture of finale, and knelt on the floor by Valentine.  His head was bowed.  His lips moved silently.  Julian saw that he was praying, and sprang up fiercely.  All the frost of his senses thawed in a moment.  He seized Levillier by the shoulders.

“Don’t pray!” he cried out; “don’t pray.  Curse!  Curse as I do!  If he’s dead you shall not pray.  You shall not!  You shall not!”

The little doctor drew him down to his knees.

“Julian, hush!  My science tells me Valentine is dead.”

Julian opened his white lips, but the doctor, with a motion, silenced him, and added, pointing to Rip, who still lay happily by his master’s side: 

“But that dog seems to tell me he is alive; that this is some strangely complete and perfect simulation of death, some unnatural sleep of the senses.  Pray, pray with me that Valentine may wake.”

And, kneeling by his friend, with bent head, Julian strove to pray.  The answer to that double prayer pierced the two men.  It was so instant, and so bizarre, fighting against probability, yet heralding light, and the end of that night’s pale circumstances.