THERE was no
hope for him this time: it was the third stroke. Night after night I had passed
the house (it was vacation time) and studied the lighted square of window: and
night after night I had found it lighted in the same way, faintly and evenly.
If he was dead, I thought, I would see the reflection of candles on the
darkened blind for I knew that two candles must be set at the head of a corpse.
He had often said to me: "I am not long for this world," and I had
thought his words idle. Now I knew they were true. Every night as I gazed up at
the window I said softly to myself the word paralysis. It had always sounded
strangely in my ears, like the word gnomon in the Euclid and the word simony in the Catechism. But now it
sounded to me like the name of some maleficent and sinful being. It filled me
with fear, and yet I longed to be nearer to it and to look upon its deadly
work.
Old Cotter was
sitting at the fire, smoking, when I came downstairs to supper. While my aunt
was serving my stirabout
he said, as if returning to some former remark of his:
"No, I
wouldn't say he was exactly... but there was something queer... there was
something strange about him. I'll tell you my opinion...."