Ambrose looked on it.
“After twenty days,” said he quietly. “After twenty days I die.”
I looked upon the parchment; thereon, in fierce scrawled characters, was writ:
Post Viginti Dies.
“Why, what is this?” said I.
“The mandate of the Doctor. Because I fetched not his sulphur,” said Ambrose.
“Tirralirra!” cried the lad, and, with a hop and a skip, sped from the cell.
Ambrose sat silent, his haggard gaze bent upon the floor; and I also was silent. At length he spoke.
“Nay, but I am weary,” said he, “weary of it all.... Over the rocks, over the flinty rocks, have lain all the courses of my life.... Always uneasy!... Miserable!... Tormented! tormented! But, when the Doctor revealed to me the hidden truth, then came joy unto my soul. No longer tormented with those dark and hideous thoughts, no longer plunged in deep-down gulfs of terror and despair.
“Let him, then, kill my body, since he hath given life unto my soul! Ay, let him kill me, for I am a-weary! A-weary!”