Miss Knowlton ignored his cleverness. "I'd try to get to sleep now." In the effort to prevent her lips from twisting she looked at him with a threatening gaze. If Dr. Salter would only come! Suddenly he caught her hand and held it in a weak and desperate grip. She closed both her own upon it.
"Did they take it off?"
Denial was useless.
"Yes, Doctor."
"At the shoulder?"
"Yes." She lifted his hand and held it against her breast, then she bent over him and wiped away his tears. He turned his head, conscious of his ignominy, but she felt solemnly that she had lived through a great moment.
He slept a drugged sleep. In the morning he woke to consciousness as one wakes to bereavement; first a vague suspicion that all is not right, then full perception of the leaden weight from which there is to be henceforth no escape.
Dr. Salter repeated to him presently the opinions of his colleagues, their hesitation, their deep concern, their final agreement that delay would be fatal, and Stephen managed to answer gayly. Then he closed his eyes and Salter went away.
With returning strength came increasing activity of mind. He remembered the journey upon which he had set out and its interruption. He was uplifted no longer by the spirit of sacrifice; he felt only a sort of shamed humility. Some mighty power had mishandled him, and resistance was absurd. There were moments when he wept feebly.