The hours grew on towards the evening, but John, the dead face of thewoman he had loved still pillowed on his breast, neither dreamed norwoke. There was a strange and dreadful irony in the situation, an ironywhich sometimes finds its counterpart in our waking life, but still theman slept, and the dead girl lay till the night turned into the morningand the earth woke up as usual. The sunbeams slid into the cave, andplayed indifferently upon the ashen face and tangled curls, and on thebroad chest of the living man whereon they rested. An old baboon peepedround the rocky edge and manifested no surprise, only indignation, atthe intrusion of humanity, dead or alive, into his dominions. Yes, theworld woke up as usual, and recked not and troubled not because Jess wasdead.
It is so accustomed to such sights.
At last John woke up also. He stretched his arms yawning, and for thefirst time became aware of the weight upon his breast. He glanced downand saw dimly at first--then more clearly.
There are some things into which it is wisest not to pry, and one ofthem is the first agony of a strong man's grief.
Happy was it for John that his brain did not give way in that lonelyhour of bottomless despair. But he lived through it, as we do livethrough such things, and was sane and sound after it, though it left itsmark upon his life.
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