"From that trance! Yes; it was then. That flame going away, it was—it must have been—Valentine."
"You talk like a madman."
But Julian did not heed the sneer. He was passionately engrossed by the flood of thoughts that had come to him. He was struggling to wake finally from the dreary and infamous dream in which he had been walking—deceived, tricked, tyrant-ridden—for so long.
"But then Valentine is dead," he cried.
His face went white. He sank down, clinging suddenly to Cuckoo.
"Dead!" he repeated in a whisper.
The girl's touch was strangely warm on his hands, like fire. He looked up into her eyes, seeking passionately for that flame that now he began vaguely to connect with the Valentine he had lost.
"Or is he—?"
Julian hesitated, still gazing at the white and weary face of Cuckoo.
Suddenly Valentine said loudly:
"You are right. He is dead."