“Oh, no, you didn't! I had it in my hand a minute ago! But I fell into a doze, and it is gone! George, get it!—get it for me, or I shall go mad!” George went and brought it him.
“Thank you! thank you! Now I remember! I thought I was in hell, and they took it from me!”
“Don't you be afraid, sir! Fall asleep when you feel inclined. I will keep my eye on the cup.”
“You will not go away?”
“No; I will stay as long as you like; there is nothing to take me away. If I had thought you would be worse, I would not have gone last night.”
“I'm not worse! What put that in your head? Don't you hear me speaking better? I've thought about it, George, and am convinced the cup is a talisman! I am better all the time I hold it! It was because I let you put it away that I was worse last night—for no other reason. If it were not a talisman, how else could it have so nestled itself into my heart! I feel better, always, the moment I take it in my hand! There is something more than common about that chalice! George, what if it should be the Holy Grail!”
He said it with bated breath, and a great white awe upon his countenance. His eyes were shining; his breath came and went fast. Slowly his aged cheeks flushed with two bright spots. He looked as if the joy of his life was come.
“What if it should be the Holy Grail!” he repeated, and fell asleep with the words on his lips.
As the evening deepened into night, he woke. Crawford was sitting beside him. A change had come over him. He stared at George as if he could not make him out, closed his eyes, opened them, stared, and again closed them. He seemed to think he was there for no good.
“Would you like me to call Alexa?” said George.