“He was shot from behind—a bad wound, but not necessarily a fatal one.... It hit him under the right-shoulder-blade,” the doctor was saying.
Routledge felt choky and very tired. His consciousness wavered back and forth like the throw of wind under a punkah when the coolies are fresh.... There was a light running step outside.... He was to go down close to the Gates with a lock on his lips.... His lips were tightened. First of all, there was a sweet breath of wind, like one of the best memories of early life.... He wanted to rub his eyes, but the surgeon held his hands.... Noreen’s voice was quick and tragic. The word “die” was uttered.
“No,” the doctor repeated; “not necessarily a fatal wound. I’ve ordered a carriage. We’ll take him to the Rest House.”
Noreen—the Leper Valley—the Russian music—the Shanghai Bund—Charing Cross—the carriage—the hovel in Rydamphur—the night in Bookstalls—Noreen—that he must be silent in delirium—these were the waves of consciousness.... He felt her hand, her lips, upon his brow. Even if it were just a vision, he wanted to welcome her with a smile, but his lips were locked.
“Oh, you martyr—you blessed martyr!... Don’t you know me, Routledge-san?”
“Is it true, Noreen? Are you here?”
“With you always, beloved.”
A frown fell upon his face. “I just came in from Liaoyang for the cable. It isn’t good for you to be with me.”
“My Master—don’t you know Father is dead, and that he was sane to confess at the last?... Feeney and Finacune were there.”