Norah’s head went down suddenly on his hand.
“You can’t die!” she said,—“we can’t spare you, dear Sir John. We’re going to make you better!”
“Dying is only a very little matter, dear little mate,” O’Neill said. “It’s living that hurts. And just think of what I have—a man’s finish! That is a great thing, when one has lived a hunchback.”
He did not speak for a long time, lying with closed eyes. The dawn was breaking: light grew on the surface of the inlet, where long streaks of oil floated on the ripples. They watched the quiet figure. Under the coats that covered him, all traces of deformity were lost. Something of new beauty had crept into the high-bred features; and when he opened his eyes again they were like the smiling eyes of a child. They met Jim’s, and the lips smiled too, while his weak hand rested on Norah’s head.
“And I worrying,” he said, “because I was out of the war.”
“You had your own job,” said Aylwin. “And you pulled it off, old man.”
“It was great luck,” O’Neill said. “God had pity. Enormous luck . . . to finish at a man’s job.” He did not speak again. The sun, climbing upwards, shone tenderly upon the happy face.
“The German saw his intention and shouted furiously, and shots began to whistle past O’Neill.”