There was in my heart no love for Dolly—no passion of that affinity that draws atom to atom in the destiny that is human. There was only the pitying protective sense that came to man through the angels, and, in its sensual surrender, marked their fall from divinity. For to the end, without one thought of wavering, Zyp must shine the mirage of my barren waste of love.
Suddenly I remembered, with a remorseful pang, that all this time I had forgotten Duke. I hurried down to the steps, calling him. He was sitting in the boat, his elbows on his knees, his face buried in his hands.
“Duke!” I cried, “come out and let’s see what we can do for a dry. You’ll get the frost in your lungs sitting there.”
He rose at once, staggering a little. I had to run down the steps to help him ashore, where he stood shaken all through with violent shiverings.
“Whisky,” said our host, laconically, watchful of the poor fellow, “and enough of it to make your hair curl.”
Between us we got him into the house, where he was made to swallow at a gulp three finger-breadths in a tumbler of the raw spirit. Then after a time the color came back to his cheeks, the restored nerves to his limbs.
At that our kindly host made us strip, and providing us with what coverings he could produce, set us and our soaked belongings before a second fire in his little parlor, and only left us when summoned outside to his business. As the door closed behind him Duke turned to me. A sort of patient sorrow was on his face—an expression as of renunciation of some favored child of his fancy—I cannot express it better.
“You carried her in?” he said, quietly.
“Dolly? Yes.”
“Where is she?”