Between them the new candle, brought for the signing of the
relinquishment, flared and sputtered.
Bob stumbled to his feet.
"Good night," said he.
Samuels neither moved nor stirred. He might have been a figure such as
used to be placed before the entrances of wax works exhibitions, so
still he sat, so fixed were his eyes, so pallid the texture of his
weather-tanned flesh after the vigil.
Bob went out to the verandah. The chill air stirred his blood, set in
motion the run-down machinery of his physical being. From the darkness a
bird chirped loudly. Bob looked up. Over the still, pointed tops of the
trees the sky had turned faintly gray. From the window streamed the
candle light. It seemed unwontedly yellow in contrast to a daylight
that, save by this contrast, was not yet visible. Bob stepped from the
verandah. As he passed the window, he looked in. Samuels had risen to
his feet, and stood rigid, his clenched fist on the table.
At the stable Bob spoke quietly to his animals, saddled them, and led
them out. For some instinctive reason which he could not have explained,
he had decided to be immediately about his journey.
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