"Why, yes," he replied. "Of course, Tom. Of course I can understand you." Eyes again sought to solve the mystery of the room; for from the mind cleared had fled all memories of the mind uncleared.
Blake cried:
"You are coming away with us, Jack—away from this hell-snake of yours!
You're coming today—now! Do you understand?"
Schuyler nodded.
"Yes," he said. "I understand." In his mind the real and the unreal were clarifying into an accurate whole. He nodded again.
"There's still a chance for you, Jack." Blake continued, earnestly, all his force in his words. "There's still a chance for you. You're going to be strong, and become a man again! Tell me that you will!"
"It's too late, Tom," he replied. There was in the words sadness, despair, hopelessness unutterable. "It's too late. Body, mind, soul are wasted, gone. There's no chance, Tom. It's too late!"
"No!" cried Blake! "There is happiness for you—real happiness—the right happiness! Your wife—your child—"
"Don't speak of them," Schuyler moaned. "Don't! … Don't!"
"You must think of them, Jack. It's there that salvation lies. Think of the true woman—the wife who loves you. Think of the little one who used to put baby hands around your neck and try to tell you all the beautiful things that only children know. That is what will save you now, Jack—and only that! Think…. Think!"