Chapter Twenty Three.
Haunted.
For nearly a minute Dick did not stir, but stood staring, with eyes wide open, lips apart, and the piccolo held still on a level with his chin.
Then, as the figure of the officer was hidden by the marching men, the young musician uttered a low, hoarse sound—the pent-up breath escaping from his lungs. The while the buildings opposite, the crowd of people in doorways and at windows, even the marching men steadily tramping by, seemed to undulate, rise, and then slowly glide round and round, till he gave a violent start; for a hand had grasped his arm, and he turned to gaze at the clarionet-player who was supporting him.
“What is it? A bit faint?”
“I—I don’t know,” faltered Dick.
“I do. That’s it. You’ve been blowing a bit too hard. Don’t play any more. We’ve just done.”
A minute or two gave the lad time to try and recover himself.
“Yes, that’s it,” said the clarionet-player; “you got excited, and played too hard. I remember being once like that; I shivered just as you are shivering now. Doctor said it was only nerves.”
“Only nerves!” said Dick, in a low tone, involuntarily repeating the man’s words.