First of all, of course, my thought was of his home—of his surroundings and his ways. I rummaged about his cavern, wondering at his makeshifts—or rather, at his lack of them.
“You have no lamp?” I cried. “But, Daniel, the wax-plant grows in this climate. Or you might use tallow or oil.”
“Dear brother,” he answered, “you forget that I have no books to read. And the few things that need light—cannot I just as well do them by day?”
“But, then, the long nights—you sleep?”
“No,” said he gently, “I do not sleep”; and later, with his strange smile, he added: “I live.”
“You live!” I echoed in perplexity; and then I stopped, catching the quiet, steady gaze of his eyes.
“Just so,” he said, “I live. I had never lived before.”
Most of all, I think, I was perplexed at the sight of his violin. From what I had seen of his youthful life, I could have imagined him spending all day and all night with that; but here it hung, useless as a stick of wood.
“You could have made strings for it,” I said. “I can make them for you.”
“But they would be of no use to me,” he answered.