Surely he must merely be taking a
desperate lover's ramble, a last sad visit to the scenes of his
silly, irrational infatuation. If I went up to him, I should
look a fool, too; so I hung behind, ready to turn upon him if
need appeared.
He walked down to the very edge of the stream; it ran deep and
fast just here, under a high bank and a row of old willows.
Smugg sat down on the bank, wet though the grass was, and clasped
his hands over his knees. I crouched down a little way behind
him, ready and alert. I am a good swimmer, and I did not doubt
my power to pull him out, even if I were not in time to prevent
him jumping in. I saw him rise, look over the brink, and sit
down again. I almost thought I saw him shiver. And presently,
through the stillness of the summer night, came the strangest,
saddest sound; catching my ear as it drifted across the meadow.
Smugg was sobbing, and his sobs--never loud--rose and fell with
the subdued stress of intolerable pain.
Suddenly he leaped up, cried aloud, and flung his hands above his
head. I thought he was gone this time; but he stopped, poised,
as it seemed, over the water, and I heard him cry, "I can't, I
can't!" and he sank down all in a heap on the bank, and fell
again to sobbing. I hope never to see a man--if you can call
Smugg a man--like that again.
He sat where he was, and I where I was, till the moon paled and a
distant hint of day discovered us.
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