that last thread soon break? Or would his darkened life go on for a long time—he always ill—hanging to that last thread? Would he yet be able to be a father to his children . . . or would he . . . on the contrary . . . become . . . a burden to his dear ones? Was it growing dark, was it growing dark? Was not that eternity rushing along? . . .
He heaved a deep sigh, amid his sobs. His eyes sought along the wall, where a rack of swords and Malay krises hung between prints of race-horses and pretty women. He had a whole collection of those weapons. Some of them had belonged to his father. At Papa's death they had been divided between him and Ernst. . . . Among the krises and swords were two revolvers. . . .
He stared past the swords and krises . . . and his eyes fastened on the revolvers. . . . In among the swords and krises, in among the race-horses and the pretty women whirled all the heads of his children—he did not know if they were portraits or spectres—as they had been, children's heads of six months, one year old, two years old: growing older and bigger, radiating more and more sunlight, his golden dawn of nine bright-haired children? . . . Would he be able to be a father to them, or would he on the contrary become a burden? . . .
It was as if his imagination were digging in a deep pit. In a deep pit his imagination, with hurry-
