The next day the man came back again to the threshold of the little room, but the writer still slept with his face buried within his labours.
“He will never awaken, he will never awaken!” said the watcher.
“Be of good faith,” said the old man softly. “Return to-morrow again.”
The man did as he was bidden, but he who had laboured was still asleep.
“Why do you deceive me?” cried the man from the street, almost beside himself with his passion; “you know he will never wake again. And you dare not tell me the truth. I will enter and see for myself.”
The old man pushed him back with his feeble strength as he made to cross the threshold. His face had a tragic consternation too dreadful to behold.
“If you cross the threshold,” he said, “while he still sleeps he will never, never awaken.”
These words and the countenance of the old man convinced the man from the street that such was the truth.
“I will return to-morrow and see if he sleeps still,” said the man, returning to the street.
“This passes all understanding,” he muttered constantly as he took his way.