From a corner of the room came the sound of measured breathing. King was expelling opium smoke from mouth and nose. He seemed to be drawing up the smoke from the very soles of his feet, and his eyes were closed in ecstasy—partly immediate, but more depending upon a knowledge of the sweet torment in store for him. There was another steady intake from the pipe, another exhalation; and, the resources of the pipe exhausted, it was laid aside. For a few moments the inert man made feeble wafting motions in the air with one hand.
And above him, on the wall, Captain Utterbourne perceived a bright print of a sailor returned to his own fireside. Below it was the last leaf of a calendar, with all the dates blocked black. And beside it was a sheet of paper on which several new months had been indicated with a pencil. He seemed to realize what it meant with something faintly like a flicker of emotion.
Utterbourne went to the man on the cot, leaned down over him, and said, in a clear, loud voice:
“Mr. King!”
The crouching figure shuddered, and with a wretched, baffled effort, tried to shake off the mounting lethargy. He opened his eyes, wanly questioning, and at length managed to stagger up from the cot.
King was meagrely clothed, and dirty—a sad object, all in all, and a pretty far cry, now, from any reasonable conception of a god.
Suddenly, as he faced the newcomer with the lantern, a light of frenzied recognition flamed in his face, making the havoc there singularly vivid. He took a lurching step and stretched out his arms, his eyes moving with obscured intelligence.
“Utterbourne!” he cried out in a terrible voice and flung his arms heavily about the other’s neck, as a drunkard might. “Good God, Utterbourne! What a hell to leave a man in....” But it flickered weakly.
His cheeks were grey, and so far shrunk from their former appearance as to resemble a tough, thin substance stretched tightly over the bones of the face. He was afflicted with general marasmus or consumption of the flesh, and to look into the man’s face now was almost like looking at a skull plastered with smoked wax.
He bore down on Utterbourne’s shoulders, and a ray of drifting content came into his eyes—eyes which began to look even a little blue and round again, though the dull fire of delirium made their expression still one of wreck and hopelessness. The Captain manœuvred him back on to the cot, pushing him with an arm that partly repelled and partly supported. King dropped, an almost grateful little cry on his lips, and for a while sat looking helplessly up at the face bent down toward him, so unchanging.