"
"Not always. You take it too seriously," I said. "You are no fox."
"That man will be in at the death," he persisted.
"Nonsense, Roscoe. He does not know you. What has he to do with you? This
is overwrought nerves. You are killing yourself with worry."
He was motionless and silent for a minute. Then he said very quietly:
"No, I do not think that I really worry now. I have known"--here he laid
his hand upon my shoulder and his eyes had a shining look--"what it is to
be happy, unspeakably happy, for a moment; and that stays with me. I am a
coward no longer."
He drew his finger tips slowly across his forehead. Then he continued:
"To-morrow I shall be angry with myself, no doubt, for having that
moment's joy, but I cannot feel so now. I shall probably condemn myself
for cruel selfishness; but I have touched life's highest point this
afternoon, Marmion."
I drew his hand down from my shoulder and pressed it. It was cold. He
withdrew his eyes from the mountain, and said: "I have had dreams,
Marmion, and they are over. I lived in one: to expiate--to wipe out--a
past, by spending my life for others.
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