"
And then it seemed to change:
"Peter--Peter--Hold out a little longer--the battle isn't over
yet--struggle on for a little, Peter--I'll help you--I'll bring your
courage back to you--Trust me, Peter--trust me...."
Through the rattle of the surf there came the sick melancholy lowing of the
Bell Rock; swinging over a space of waters it fell across fields,
unutterably, abominably sad.
And in the boy there instantly leapt to life his soul. Maimed and bruised
and stunned it had been--now alive, tearing him, bringing on to his bending
shoulders an awful tide of knowledge: "Everything is gone--your wife, your
boy, your friend, your work.... We have won, Peter, we have won. The House
is waiting for you...."
And above those dreadful voices the thundering echo, indifferent to his
agonies, despising his frailties, flinging him, sea-wreck of the most
miserable, to any insignificant end....
Peter suddenly stood up, rocking on his box. He seized the whip from the
driver's hands. He lashed the miserable horse.
"Get on, you devil, get on--leave this noise behind you--get out of it, get
out of it--"
The cab rocked and tossed, Mr. Jackson caught the boy about the shoulders,
held him down. The horse, tired and weary, paid no heed to anything that
might be happening but stumbled on.
"Good Lord, sir," Mr. Jackson cried, "you might have had us over--What's it
all about, sir?"
But Peter now was huddled down with his coat about his ears and did not
move again.
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