"No! It came near it, but I 've beaten it. I 'm bigger now than the dear old merciless city. It's mine—down to every dark alley. I 've got it at my feet, Barstow. It is n't going to kill me, it's going to make me grow. It is n't any longer my master—it's a good-natured, obedient servant. New York?" he laughed excitedly. "What is New York but a little strip of ground underneath the stars?"
"That would sound better if your eyes were clearer and your hand steadier."
"You 'd expect a man to be battered up a little, would n't you, after a hard fight? I 've fought the hardest thing in the world there is to fight—shadows, Barstow, shadows—with the King Shadow itself at their head."
Was the man raving? It sounded so, but Donaldson's eyes, in spite of their heaviness, were not so near those of madness as they had been a moment ago. The startled look had left his face. Every feature stood out brightly, as though lighted from within. His voice was fuller, and his language, though obscure, more like that of the old Donaldson. Barstow was mystified.
"Had n't you better lie down here again?" he suggested.
"I must go, now. What—what time is it, old man?"
"Five minutes past ten."
Donaldson took a deep breath. Time—how it stretched before him like a flower-strewn path without end. He heard the friendly tick-tock at his wrists. The minutes were so many jewel boxes, each containing the choice gift of so many breaths, so many chances to look into her eyes, so many chances to fulfil duties, so many quaffs of life.
"My watch has run down," he said, with curious seriousness. "I 'm going to wind it up again. I 'm going to wind it up again, Barstow."
He proceeded to do this as though engaged in some mystic rite.