And here--wonder of wonders--sat Surface before him, drawn
back to the scene of his fall like a murderer to the body and the
scarlet stain upon the floor, caught, trapped, the careful mask of many
years plucked from him at a sudden word, leaving him no covering upon
earth but his smooth white hands. And he, Queed, was this man's closest,
his only friend, chosen out of all the world to live with him and
minister to his declining years....
"It's true!" now broke through the concealing hands. "I am that man....
God help me!"
Queed looked unseeingly out of the window, where the sun was couching in
a bed of copper flame stippled over with brightest azure. Why had he
done it? What crazy prompting had struck from him that promise to yoke
his destiny forever with this terrible old man? If Nicolovius, the
Fenian refugee, had never won his liking, Surface, the Satan apostate,
was detestable to him. What devil of impulse had trapped from him the
mad offer to spend his days in the company of such a creature, and in
the shadow of so odious an ill-fame?
As on the day when Fifi had asked him her innocent question about
altruism, a sudden tide swept the young man's thoughts inward.
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