“I’m so glad,” said Elizabeth.
She knelt by the fire, and poured some of the soup into a cup. Then she held it out to him, and he drank, taking long draughts. After that she put food before him, and he ate in a dazed, mechanical fashion.
When he had finished, he sat staring at Elizabeth, with his elbows on the table, and his head between his hands.
“Ronnie is asleep—he’ll do.” And then with sudden passion: “My God, if I could sleep!”
“You will, David,” said Elizabeth. She put her hand on his arm, and he turned his head a little, still staring at her.
“No, I don’t sleep,” he said. “Everything else sleeps—Die Vöglein ruhen im Walde. How does it go?”
“Warte nur, balde ruhest du auch,” said Elizabeth in her tranquil voice.
“No,” said David, “I can’t get in. It was so easy once—but now I can’t get in. The silent city of sleep has long, smooth walls—I can’t find the gate; I grope along the wall all night, hour after hour. A hundred times I think I have found the door. Sometimes there is a flashing sword that bars the way, sometimes the wall closes—closes as I pass the threshold. There’s no way in. The walls are smooth—all smooth—you can’t get in.”
He spoke, not wildly, but in a low, muttering way. Elizabeth touched his hand. It was very hot.
“Come, David,” she said, “it is late.” She drew him to his feet, and he walked uncertainly, and leaned on her shoulder, as they went up the stair. Once in his room, he sank again upon a chair. He let her help him, but when she knelt, and would have unlaced his boots, he roused himself.