Blake shook his head, in the gripping horror of it all.
"It makes me sick," he murmured, to himself, "sick at heart!"
Schuyler had heard.
"It makes me sick, too," he cackled. He pointed to the shattered mirror, above the mantel. "Do you see that?" he demanded. "There isn't a whole one in the house. I don't dare to look at myself."
Came to Blake's mind now, stricken and wracked as it had been, by that which he had seen, a glimmer of hope. He had heard of men like this who had come back to life—to reason. It might be fever—fever and drink; and it might be that the fever could be stayed—the drink conquered. John Schuyler had been a strong man. Surely it could not be that in so short a time he had been dragged to the grave's very edge. Lack of attention, lack of care, lack of medicine and nursing and discipline were probably largely responsible. The man might be awakened—brought to himself. It might be possible—
Speculatively, not realizing that he spoke aloud, he asked of himself:
"Is there a chance left? Is there one little chance left, to save him?"
Again Schuyler had heard.
"What would be the use?" he queried, dully. The liquor was passing. "What is there left of me to save? I'm a husk—squeezed dry. I'm a memory—a nightmare. They are calling me—Young Parmalee, Rogers, Seward Van Dam. I drink to them, now, even as they drink to me—scorching in their hole in hell!" He rose weakly to his feet, raising a dirty glass in which splashed a little amber liquor.
Came to Blake the thought that, even though Schuyler could not be redeemed to manhood, he might at least, be saved from death, or worse. He might at least be made again into the semblance of that which he had been. He started forward, hands gripping the edge of the desk, face close to Schuyler's own.