“I hope he is dead,” he said bitterly as the old man confronted him. “It is dreadful, it is dreadful!”
“He sleeps now,” said the old man simply. “Is it not wonderful that the strength should have been given to him to complete his task? But he now sleeps.”
They stole together to the threshold, where this superhuman labourer, bare-footed and unkempt, and in his rags lay fast asleep. His face was buried amid the great bulk of his writings.
“Oh,” said the man from the street with a harsh sob; “he is dead at last.”
“Oh, no,” said the old man, “he breathes softly.”
“Can it be possible?” said the other. “Can he have done all this and yet remained alive? I must see for myself before I can believe it.”
The man from the street made as if he would cross the threshold of the little room.
“Beware,” said the old man almost sternly. “Did you not promise that you would not go beyond this?”
“Yes, I did,” said the other mournfully, “but I am sure he is dead.”
“Return to-morrow, my friend, at the same hour,” said the old man, “and be of good hope. He ate and drank before he slept and he promised to awaken.”