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eleton-like form to its full height--"We're all cured,--"
"Cured? What mean you? How cured?"
"Cured of--life!" said John; and, stepping quickly forward, he fell at the doctor's feet.
The doctor seized the light as he fell, and attempted to raise him from the floor,--but John was dead in his arms.
Our history now returns to Israel Yorke, whom, with Ninety-One and the eleven, we left waiting in the dark, outside the artist's door.
"Hush, boys! hush!" whispered Ninety-One, and laid his hand upon the latch "Enter, Isr'el, and talk to yer tenant."
The door opened, and Israel entered, followed by Ninety-One and the eleven, all of whom preserved a dead stillness.
A single light was burning dimly in the artist's humble room. It cast its rays over the humble details of the place,--over the bed, which was covered by a white sheet. The place was deathly still.
"What does all this mean?" cried Israel. "There is no one here." Ninety-One took the light from the table, and led Israel silently to the bed. The eleven gathered round in silence; you could hear their hard breathing through the dead stillness of the room. Ninety-One lifted the sheet, slowly; his harsh features quivering in every fiber.
"That's what it means," he said hoarsely.
The furnace, with the fire put out, still remained in the center of the room.
"They are asleep,--asleep, certainly," cried Israel, falling back, "they can't be dead."
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