“Do you want a confession, dear boy?” called out the sick man. “Do you want my signature?... Ha, ha!—Ho, ho!—Hee, hee, hee!...” The ghastly cry reflected from the ceiling. It wasn’t laughter, or hysteria. It was a lachrymose and untidily folded cry of remorse, torn from the swiftly hollowing brain cell.
With his left hand Martin raised his own wounded arm to his forehead. When at last he brought it down, the gauze was wet. In the interim, bright eyes shone through the window. They were mirthful, smoldering and amused—the cancerous eyes of birds. Infuriated, Martin crossed the room and pulled down the blinds. When he turned in the direction of the bed once more, Roberts’ luminous eyes were parallel with his hand which was now hanging over the edge of the covers. The constriction of the pupils was so intense—so minute that the eyes seemed blind. But the expression was one of gravest interest.
“Come, Martin! Come, Infidelity! You’re my only one. If I don’t look grotesque enough for a death scene, give me a nightcap. One with white flaps over the ears and a blue peak—laugh for me, Martin!”
“For God’s sake, Roberts—not now. I’m dying with you.”
There was a sprawling, unintelligible sound from the adviser’s lips, and then silence. Martin waited, amazed at the clarity of Roberts’ words, amazed at this strange and powerful mind, still formidable. Again the adviser looked at him.
“Die?” he asked peevishly. Then more firmly, “No you won’t, darling. Unhappy men don’t die.... Could you give me your strong, brown arm without shuddering? It would mean a great deal to me.... I can see your strong, brown arm where there’s heat and dark, flashing clouds. It’s peeling a tangerine—cutting a fruit for lips as soft as the flesh in my spine—oh, wicked!... A dark girl’s belly—the cup for your mouth. Oh, God, Martin! Your mouth—the stomach—the stench of normalcy. Before that happens, give me your arm—your clean, brown arm....”
Martin went swiftly to the bed, his eyes flickering as he sank to his knees. With his good left arm, and hiding the one stripped with bandages, he lifted the skull-like head until it was level with his own, which had begun to throb and ache.
“Here is my arm, Roberts. It is your protection and your faith,” he said.
Vapidly Roberts smiled at him.
“My faith—my own true faith.... No one believed, but I knew that you were mine!... Not even Deane believed.”