“It is to the immoderate use of gymnastics,” said the physician, “that I ascribe your son’s melancholy. Wherefore, let him drink of a syrup of black hellebore, confected with the boiled seeds of anise, endive, mallow, fermitory, diacatholicon, hierologodium——”
“Half-time——change ends,” said the boy under his breath.
“Cassia and sweet almonds,” continued the physician. “And in the meantime he may drink of a broth of an exenterated chicken.”
He had heard the youth’s last remark. “And,” he added severely, “let him beware of intempestive laughter.”
So the physician went away.
“What did he say?” asked the mother of the youth.
“Well,” said the father, “he said that the boy had been growing too fast, at least he implied that, and he prescribed hierolo——French for chicken broth, you know.”
But while the doctor’s prescription was being prepared, the boy went off to the cliffs; and he stretched himself at full length on the thyme, and went to sleep, and dreamed the old sweet dream, and the sun drew near to its setting, and in his pleasant sleep the boy died.
Never had there been a happier and more desirable death.
And under the burning sun a cloud was stretched like a cloth of gold.