第72章

“I’mill。”hesaid，“I’mdamnablyill！Icanfeelitinmyskin！”

Then——itwashorribletome——hecried，“Ioughttobeinbed；I

oughttobeinbed。insteadofflyingabout。”andsuddenlyheburstintotears。

Istoodup。“Gotosleep，man！”Isaid，andtooktherugfromhim，andspreaditoutandrolledhimupinit。

“It’sallverywell。”heprotested；“I’mnotyoungenough——“

“Liftupyourhead。”Iinterrupted，andputhisknapsackunderit。

“They’llcatchushere，justasmuchasinaninn。”hegrumbledandthenlaystill。

Presently，afteralongtime，Iperceivedhewasasleep。Hisbreathcamewithpeculiarwheezings，andeverynowandagainhewouldcough。Iwasverystiffandtiredmyself，andperhapsI

dozed。Idon’tremember。Irememberonlysitting，asitseemed，nighinterminably，besidehim，toowearyeventothinkinthatsandydesolation。

Noonecamenearus；nocreature，notevenadog。Irousedmyselfatlast，feelingthatitwasvaintoseektoseemotherthanabnormal，andwithaneffortthatwaslikeliftingaskyoflead，wemadeourwaythroughthewearisomesandtoafarmhouse。ThereIfeignedevenamoreinsufficientFrenchthanIpossessnaturally，andletitappearthatwewerepedestriansfromBiarritzwhohadlostourwayalongtheshoreandgotbenighted。

Thisexplainedusprettywell，Ithought，andwegotmosthearteningcoffeeandacarttoalittleroadsidestation。Myunclegrewmoreandmoremanifestlyillwitheverystageofourjourney。IgothimtoBayonne，whereherefusedatfirsttoeat，andwasafterwardsverysick，andthentookhimshiveringandcollapsedupalittlebranchlinetoafrontierplacecalledLuzonGare。

Wefoundonehomelyinnwithtwosmallbedrooms，keptbyakindlyBasquewoman。Igothimtobed，andthatnightsharedhisroom，andafteranhourorsoofsleephewokeupinaragingfeverandwithawanderingmind，cursingNealandrepeatinglong，inaccuratelistsoffigures。Hewasmanifestlyacaseforadoctor，andinthemorningwegotonein。HewasayoungmanfromMontpelier，justbeginningtopractise，andverymysteriousandtechnicalandmodernandunhelpful。Hespokeofcoldandexposure，andlagrippeandpneumonia。Hegavemanyexplicitanddifficultdirections。Iperceiveditdevolveduponmetoorganisenursingandasick-room。Iinstalledareligieuseinthesecondbedroomoftheinn，andtookaroomformyselfintheinnofPortdeLuzon，aquarterofamileaway。

Andnowmystoryconvergesonwhat，inthatqueercornerofrefugeoutoftheworld，wasdestinedtobemyuncle’sdeathbed。

ThereisabackgroundofthePyrenees，ofbluehillsandsunlithouses，oftheoldcastleofLuzonandanoisycascadingriver，andforaforegroundthedim，stuffyroomwhosewindowsboththereligieuseandhostessconspiredtoshut，withitswaxedfloor，itsfour-posterbed，itscharacteristicallyFrenchchairsandfireplace，itschampagnebottlesanddirtybasinsandusedtowelsandpacketsofSomatoseonthetable。Andinthesicklyairoftheconfinedspaceinbehindthecurtainsofthebedlaymylittleuncle，withaneffectofbeingenthronedandsecluded，orsatup，orwrithedandtossedinhislastdealingsoflife。Onewentanddrewbacktheedgeofthecurtainsifonewantedtospeaktohimorlookathim。

Usuallyhewaspro