He leaned noiselessly, suddenly weary, against the wall of the darkroom. Here was the problem of the hospital all over again. Was it his fault somehow? The trip had been a great victory, seemingly, over the sagging spirits of his friends, his "army." (He heard the steward go in and come out.) His head seemed full of whirring thoughts without meaning. What fear, what despair had got into the man? What was it ... how did the words go?
... pluckt from us all hope of due reliefe,
That earst us held in love of lingering life;
Then hopelesse hartlesse, gan the cunning thiefe
Perswade us die, to stint all further strifes
To me he lent this rope, to him a rustie knife.
How could Wyckoff have felt that life was too much to bear? The thought was so simple once it seemed right....
What if some little paine the passage have,
That makes fraile flesh to feare the bitter wave?
Is not short paine well borne, that brings long ease....