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by death on his body, arrested by miraculous
power, was still apparent in the cadaverous
blueness of his face and his long fingers, cold with
the cold of death; his dark finger nails had
grown immeasurably long, the rank odour of the
grave still hung to his clothes. As Lazarus
advanced among the crowd that had gathered
to welcome him back to life, their joyous words
of greeting died on their lips, a terrible shadow
descended like dust over their thoughts. One
by one they fled away, their souls benumbed by
fear.”
As the chaplain recited the old legend his voice
grew weaker and weaker, he tossed uneasily in his
bed, his face grew white as the pillow under his
head.
“Are you sure that Lazarus is the only one
who has risen from the grave,” said I, “are you
sure that he had not a sister?”
The chaplain put his hands over his face with a
shriek of terror.
On the stairs I met Colonel Staaff the Swedish
military attaché who just came to inquire about
the chaplain. The Colonel invited me to drive
home with him, he wanted to speak to me on
urgent business. The Colonel had served with
great distinction in the French army during the
war of ’70 and had been wounded at Gravelotte.
He had married a French lady and was a great
favourite in Paris society.
“You know,” said the Colonel, as we sat down
to tea, “you know I am your friend and more
than twice your age, you must not take amiss
what I am going to tell you in your own interest.
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