The next day he seemed better, and Alexa began to hope again. But in the afternoon his pulse began to sink, and when Crawford came he could welcome him only with a smile and a vain effort to put out his hand. George bent¹ down to him. The others, at a sign from his eyes, left the room.

 

“I can't find it, George!” he whispered.

 

“I put it away for you last night, you remember!” answered George.

 

“Oh, no, you didn't! I had it in my hand a minute ago! But I fell into a doze², and it is gone! George, get it!—get it for me, or I shall go mad!” George went and brought it him.

 

“Thank you! thank you! Now I remember! I thought I was in hell, and they took it from me!”

 

“Don't you be afraid, sir! Fall asleep when you feel inclined. I will keep my eye on the cup.”

 

“You will not go away?”

 

“No; I will stay as long as you like; there is nothing to take me away. If I had thought you would be worse, I would not have gone last night.”

 

“I'm not worse! What put that in your head? Don't you hear me speaking better? I've thought about it, George, and am convinced the cup is a talisman³! I am better all the time I hold it! It was because I let you put it away that I was worse last night—for no other reason. If it were not a talisman, how else could it have so nestled itself into my heart! I feel better, always, the moment I take it in my hand! There is something more than common about that chalice⁴! George, what if it should be the Holy Grail!”

 

He said it with bated breath, and a great white awe⁵ upon his countenance⁶. His eyes were shining; his breath came and went fast. Slowly his aged⁷ cheeks flushed with two bright spots. He looked as if the joy of his life was come.

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