The yellow book: an illustrated quarterly (12.1897)

280

At the Article of Death

Babylon,” came the quaint recollection, and some lingering ray of
thought made him link the odd name with the amorphous presence
before him. The thing moved and came nearer, touched him, and
brooded by his side. He made to shriek, but no sound came, only
a dry rasp in the throat and a convulsive twitch of the limbs.

For a second he lay in the agony of a terror worse than the
extremes of death. It was only his dog, returned from his watch
by the door, and seeking his master. He, poor beast, knew of some
sorrow vaguely and afar, and nuzzled into his side with dumb
affection.

Then from the chaos of faculties a shred of will survived. For
an instant his brain cleared, for to most there comes a lull at the
very article of death. He saw the bare moorland room, he felt
the dissolution of his members, the palpable ebb of life. His reli-
gion had been swept from him like a rotten garment. His mind
was vacant of memories, for all were driven forth by purging
terror. Only some relic of manliness, the heritage of cleanly and
honest days, was with him to the uttermost. With blank
thoughts, without hope or vision, with nought save an aimless
resolution and a causeless bravery, he passed into the short anguish
which is death.