By
nightfall both were fagged and neither in sanguine mood.
Mount Dunstan had sat silent for some time. The pair often sat silent.
This pause was ended by the young man's rising and standing up,
stretching his limbs.
"It was a queer thing you said to me in this room a few years ago," he
said. "It has just come back to me."
Singularly enough--or perhaps naturally enough--it had also just arisen
again from the depths of Penzance's subconsciousness.
"Yes," he answered, "I remember. To-night it suggests premonition. Your
brother was not the last Mount Dunstan."
"In one sense he never was Mount Dunstan at all," answered the other
man. Then he suddenly threw out his arms in a gesture whose whole
significance it would have been difficult to describe. There was a kind
of passion in it. "I am the last Mount Dunstan," he harshly laughed.
"Moi qui vous parle! The last."
Penzance's eyes resting on him took upon themselves the far-seeing
look of a man who watches the world of life without living in it. He
presently shook his head.
"No," he said. "I don't see that. No--not the last. Believe me."
And singularly, in truth, Mount Dunstan stood still and gazed at him
without speaking.
Pages:
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352