“Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring
The Winter Garment of Repentance fling;
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To fly—and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing.”
His pulses throbbed and his head was burning, though a cold sweat had broken out on his brows and temples, and his feet were cold—ice cold. The tobacco had no taste, and it only parched his throat the more. He stumbled into the bathroom and bathed his head and hands in the cold water, and drank of it in huge gulps. That relieved him for a moment and he went back to his chair and took up his book.
His sickness came back upon him slowly, a premonitory faintness and then a gripping, aching fire within. The book trembled in his hands and the type swam in strange shapes. He clenched his fingers, threw the book from him and rose with an oath, reaching for his hat and coat and stumbling toward the door. Downstairs, less than a block away——
Beside the bookcase he caught a glimpse of his image in the pier glass. He stopped, glared at himself and straightened.
“Where are you going, d——n you? Where? Like a thief in the night? Look at me! You can’t! Where are you going?”
There was no answer but the laughter of the flames and the sneer of a motor in the Avenue.
His hand released the knob and he turned back into the room, with eyes staring, teeth set and face ghastly.
“No, by G——. You’ll not go, Phil Gallatin, not from this room to-night—not for that. Do you hear? You’ll fight this thing out here and now.”
He dropped his coat and hat and strode like a fury to the window. There he lay across the sill, and throwing the sash open wide, drank the night air into his lungs in deep breaths.