156 The Light That Failed man seemed as if he would join, but, as his lips parted in a sheepish grin, the agony of death came upon him, and he pitched grunting at their feet. Dick laughed again, remembering the horror. It seemed so exactly like his own case. “But I have a little more time allowed me,” he said. He paced up and down the room, quietly at first, but afterwards with the hurried feet of fear. It was as though a black shadow stood at his elbow and urged him to go forward; and there were only weaving circles and floating pin-dots before his eyes. “We need to be calm, Binkie; we must be calm.” He talked aloud for the sake of distraction. “This isn’t nice at all. What shall we do? We must do something. Our time is short. I shouldn’t have believed that this morning; but now things are different. Binkie, where was Moses when the light went out?” Binkie smiled from ear to ear, as a well-bred terrier should, but made no suggestion. ““Were there but world enough and time, This coyness, Binkie, were not crime. ... But at my back I always hear —’” He wiped his forehead, which was unpleasantly damp. “What can I do? What can I do? J haven’t any notions left, and I can’t think connectedly, but I must do something, or I shall go off my head.” The hurried walk recommenced, Dick stopping every now and again to drag forth long-neglected canvases and old notebooks; for he turned to his work by instinct, as a thing that could not fail. “You won’t do, and you won't do,” he said, at each inspection. “No more soldiers. | couldn’t paint ’em. Sudden death comes home too nearly, and this is battle and murder for me.” The day was failing, and Dick thought for a moment that the twilight of the blind had come upon him unaware. “Allah Almighty!” he cried despairingly, “help me through the time of waiting, and I won’t