Then presently there entered two men servants carrying two high piles of books. Placing them on a table, they left the room, returning in a few moments with two more piles. Once more they went out and returned, their arms still laden with books.
Meanwhile a new life seemed suddenly to have animated the poet’s frame. His eyes shone, and he struggled to raise himself in the bed. The lawyer packed the pillows at his back, and he sat up.
“Put them at the end of the bed,” he said; “let me see them all, let me touch them....”
When his wish had been carried out, and the servants departed, he leaned over the books and stroked them affectionately again and again.
“So you are really mine—really my children,” he said.
“Did I really write them?” he said, presently, turning to his friend. “So many?”
“Yes! dear friend, you wrote them all,” answered the lawyer, too solemnised to jest; for he saw that it was close on the turning of the tide.
“How many are there?” asked Wasteneys, leaning back, already weary with the excitement.
“I will count them ...” said his friend, and presently announced that there were fifty-three volumes.
“Fifty-three!” exclaimed Wasteneys; “and how old am I?”