"Good-night."
And they left him. Alone with Allan, Bruce looked up with a savage glare.
"Look here!" he snarled, between his teeth. "If you think I'm going to lie
here and die you're mistaken! I won't! I won't let go! I'll show you chaps
you can be wrong! Been wrong before, haven't you, thousands of times! Why
be so damnably sure about _me_?" He fell back suddenly, limp and weak. "So
damnably sure," he panted.
"We're never sure, my dear old boy," said Allan very tenderly. Again he
was bending close over the bed. "We're not sure yet--by any means. You're
so strong, old chap, so amazingly strong. You've given me hope--"
"What are you sticking into my arm?" But Allan kept talking steadily on:
"You've given me hope you'll pull through still. But not like this. You've
got to rest. Let go, and try to go to sleep."
"I'm afraid to," came the whisper. But soon, as again the drug took hold,
he mumbled in a drowsy tone, "Afraid to go to sleep in the dark.... Say,
Allan--get Deborah in here, will you--just for a minute. One thing more."
When she came, he did not open his eyes.
"That you, Deborah? Where's your hand?... Oh--there it is. Just one more
point. You--you--" Again his mind wandered, but with an effort he brought
it back. "You and Edith," he said in a whisper. "So--so--so different.
Not--not like each other at all. But you'll stick together--eh?
Always--always. Don't let go--I mean of my hand.
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