He had dropped his face upon his folded arms and was placidly sleeping.
“Don’t mind him,” said the Professor, hurriedly. “We are all in the stage of reaction now. I have no doubt that we are all liable to collapse. It is only to-night that we shall feel what we have gone through.”
“I’m sure I can fully sympathize with him,” said Mrs. Patterson. “I don’t know when I have been more sleepy. I can hardly hold my own head up.” She cuddled back in her chair and shut her eyes.
“Well, I’ve never known Mary do that before,” cried her husband, laughing heartily. “Gone to sleep over her supper! What ever will she think when we tell her of it afterwards? But the air does seem hot and heavy. I can certainly excuse any one who falls asleep to-night. I think that I shall turn in early myself.”
Ainslie was in a talkative, excited mood. He was on his feet once more with his glass in his hand.
“I think that we ought to have one drink all together, and then sing ‘Auld Lang Syne,’” said he, smiling round at the company. “For a week we have all pulled in the same boat, and we’ve got to know each other as people never do in the quiet days of peace. We’ve learned to appreciate each other, and we’ve learned to appreciate each other’s nations. There’s the Colonel here stands for Germany. And Father Pierre is for France. Then there’s the Professor for America. Ralston and I are Britishers. Then there’s the ladies, God bless ’em! They have been angels of mercy and compassion all through the siege. I think we should drink the health of the ladies. Wonderful thing—the quiet courage, the patience, the—what shall I say?—the fortitude, the—the—by George, look at the Colonel! He’s gone to sleep, too—most infernal sleepy weather.” His glass crashed down upon the table, and he sank back, mumbling and muttering, into his seat. Miss Sinclair, the pale mission nurse, had dropped off also. She lay like a broken lily across the arm of her chair. Mr. Patterson looked round him and sprang to his feet. He passed his hand over his flushed forehead.
“This isn’t natural, Jessie,” he cried. “Why are they all asleep? There’s Father Pierre—he’s off too. Jessie, Jessie, your mother is cold. Is it sleep? Is it death? Open the windows! Help! help! help!” He staggered to his feet and rushed to the windows, but midway his head spun round, his knees sank under him, and he pitched forward upon his face.
The young girl had also sprung to her feet. She looked round her with horror-stricken eyes at her prostrate father and the silent ring of figures.
“Professor Mercer! What is it? What is it?” she cried. “Oh, my God, they are dying! They are dead!”
The old man had raised himself by a supreme effort of his will, though the darkness was already gathering thickly round him.