I, CLARENCE, must write it for him. He proposed
that we two go out and see if any help could be
accorded the wounded. I was strenuous against the
project. I said that if there were many, we could do
but little for them; and it would not be wise for us to
trust ourselves among them, anyway. But he could
seldom be turned from a purpose once formed; so we
shut off the electric current from the fences, took an
escort along, climbed over the enclosing ramparts of
dead knights, and moved out upon the field. The first
wounded mall who appealed for help was sitting with
his back against a dead comrade. When The Boss
bent over him and spoke to him, the man recognized
him and stabbed him. That knight was Sir Meliagraunce, as I found out by tearing
off his helmet. He
will not ask for help any more.
We carried The Boss to the
cave and gave his wound, which
was not very serious, the best
care we could. In this service
we had the help of Merlin, though
we did not know it. He was disguised
as a woman, and appeared to be
a simple old peasant goodwife.
In this disguise, with brown-stained
face and smooth shaven, he had
appeared a few days after The
Boss was hurt and offered to
cook for us, saying her people
had gone off to join certain
new camps which the enemy were
forming, and that she was starving.
The Boss had been getting along
very well, and had amused himself
with finishing up his record.
We were glad to have this woman,
for we were short handed. We
were in a trap, you see -- a
trap of our own making. If we
stayed where we were, our dead
would kill us; if we moved out
of our defenses, we should no
longer be invincible. We had
conquered; in turn we were conquered.
The Boss recognized this; we
all recognized it. If we could
go to one of those new camps
and patch up some kind of terms
with the enemy -- yes, but The
Boss could not go, and neither
could I, for I was among the
first that were made sick by
the poisonous air bred by those
dead thousands. Others were taken
down, and still others. To-morrow
--
TO-MORROW. It is here. And
with it the end. About midnight
I awoke, and saw that hag making
curious passes in the air about
The Boss's head and face, and
wondered what it meant. Everybody
but the dynamo-watch lay steeped
in sleep; there was no sound.
The woman ceased from her mysterious
foolery, and started tip-toeing
toward the door. I called out:
"Stop! What
have you been doing?"
She halted, and said with an
accent of malicious satisfaction:
"Ye were conquerors;
ye are conquered! These others
are perishing
-- you also. Ye shall all die
in this place -- every one --
except HIM. He sleepeth now --
and shall sleep thirteen centuries.
I am Merlin!"
Then such a delirium of silly
laughter overtook him that he
reeled about like a drunken man,
and presently fetched up against
one of our wires. His mouth is
spread open yet; apparently he
is still laughing. I suppose
the face will retain that petrified
laugh until the corpse turns
to dust.
The Boss has never stirred
-- sleeps like a stone. If he
does not wake to-day we shall
understand what kind of a sleep
it is, and his body will then
be borne to a place in one of
the remote recesses of the cave
where none will ever find it
to desecrate it. As for the rest
of us -- well, it is agreed that
if any one of us ever escapes
alive from this place, he will
write the fact here, and loyally
hide this Manuscript with The
Boss, our dear good chief, whose
property it is, be he alive or
dead.
THE END OF THE MANUSCRIPT
FINAL P.S. BY M.T.
THE dawn was come when I laid
the Manuscript aside. The rain
had almost ceased, the world
was gray and sad, the exhausted
storm was sighing and sobbing
itself to rest. I went to the
stranger's room, and listened
at his door, which was slightly
ajar. I could hear his voice,
and so I knocked. There was no
answer, but I still heard the
voice. I peeped in. The man lay
on his back in bed, talking brokenly
but with spirit, and punctuating
with his arms, which he thrashed
about, restlessly, as sick people
do in delirium. I slipped in
softly and bent over him. His
mutterings and ejaculations went
on. I spoke -- merely a word,
to call his attention. His glassy
eyes and his ashy face were alight
in an instant with pleasure,
gratitude, gladness, welcome:
"Oh, Sandy,
you are come at last -- how
I have longed for
you! Sit by me -- do not leave
me -- never leave me again, Sandy,
never again. Where is your hand?
-- give it me, dear, let me hold
it -- there -- now all is well,
all is peace, and I am happy
again -- WE are happy again,
isn't it so, Sandy? You are so
dim, so vague, you are but a
mist, a cloud, but you are HERE,
and that is blessedness sufficient;
and I have your hand; don't take
it away -- it is for only a little
while, I shall not require it
long...... Was that the child?......
Hello-Central!...... she doesn't
answer. Asleep, perhaps? Bring
her when she wakes, and let me
touch her hands, her face, her
hair, and tell her good-bye......
Sandy! Yes, you are there. I
lost myself a moment, and I thought
you were gone...... Have I been
sick long? It must be so; it
seems months to me. And such
dreams! such strange and awful
dreams, Sandy! Dreams that were
as real as reality -- delirium,
of course, but SO real! Why,
I thought the king was dead,
I thought you were in Gaul and
couldn't get home, I thought
there was a revolution; in the
fantastic frenzy of these dreams,
I thought that Clarence and I
and a handful of my cadets fought
and exterminated the whole chivalry
of England! But even that was
not the strangest. I seemed to
be a creature out of a remote
unborn age, centuries hence,
and even THAT was as real as
the rest! Yes, I seemed to have
flown back out of that age into
this of ours, and then forward
to it again, and was set down,
a stranger and forlorn in that
strange England, with an abyss
of thirteen centuries yawning
between me and you! between me
and my home and my friends! between
me and all that is dear to me,
all that could make life worth
the living! It was awful -- awfuler
than you can ever imagine, Sandy.
Ah, watch by me, Sandy -- stay
by me every moment -- DON'T let
me go out of my mind again; death
is nothing, let it come, but
not with those dreams, not with
the torture of those hideous
dreams -- I cannot endure THAT
again...... Sandy?......"
He lay muttering incoherently
some little time; then for a
time he lay silent, and apparently
sinking away toward death. Presently
his fingers began to pick busily
at the coverlet, and by that
sign I knew that his end was
at hand with the first suggestion
of the death-rattle in his throat
he started up slightly, and seemed
to listen: then he said:
"A bugle?......
It is the king! The drawbridge,
there! Man the
battlements! -- turn out the
--"
He was getting
up his last "effect";
but he never finished it.
The
End
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