I hated to see
it, and closed my eyes; its murmurings and gibberings haunted my
ears for awhile, making me restless and unhappy; then they died
away. Their going made me happy; I sighed in contentment; and
everything became as though it were not.
Yet I had one more vision, breaking suddenly across my
unconsciousness. A bold, rich voice rang out, "By God, I will!"
"No, no," cried another. Then, "What's that?" There was a rush of
feet, the cries of men who met in anger or excitement, the crack
of a shot and of another quickly following, oaths, and scuffling.
Then came the sound of feet flying. I could not make it out; I
grew weary with the puzzle of it. Would they not be quiet? Quiet
was what I wanted. At last they grew quiet; I closed my eyes
again. The pain was less now; they were quiet; I could sleep.
When a man looks back on the past, reviewing in his mind the
chances Fortune has given and the calls she has made, he always
torments himself by thinking that he could have done other and
better than in fact he did. Even now I lie awake at night
sometimes, making clever plans by which I could have thwarted
Rupert's schemes. In these musings I am very acute; Anton von
Strofzin's idle talk furnishes me with many a clue, and I draw
inferences sure and swift as a detective in the story books.
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