"He ought to get over this," he answered, impatiently, "but I believe," he added, deliberately, "he'll have to go."
Everything stood still for a moment. It seemed impossible. Two days ago full of life, now on the way out. There crowded in upon me thoughts of his home; his mother, whose letters he used to show me full of anxious love; his wild life here, with all its generous impulses, its mistakes, its folly.
"How long will he last?" I asked, and my lips were dry and numb.
"Perhaps twenty-four hours, perhaps longer. He can't throw off the poison."
The old doctor proved a true prophet. After another day of agonized delirium he sank into a stupor which lasted through the night.
Then the change came. As the light began to grow at the eastern rim of the prairie and tip the far mountains in the west, Bruce opened his eyes and looked about upon us. The doctor had gone; The Duke had not come back; Moore and I were alone. He gazed at us steadily for some moments; read our faces; a look of wonder came into his eyes.
"Is it coming?" he asked in a faint, awed voice, "Do you really think I must go?"
