I had nursed it with a very jealous purpose. . . . Farrell should not
slip through my fingers by dying, while I could yet force a stimulant
down his throat, to linger him out. . . . It was a tiny 'sample'
flask, and had been pressed on my acceptance, as a small flourish of
trade, by a German wine-dealer in Valparaiso. . . . And here at the
crisis, with Farrell dying at my feet, on an instant I renounced my
purpose.
"'Drink this,' I commanded Santa, 'and you shall live some hours yet.
And then, if there _be_ an island--'
"She caught at it with a delighted cry, her hands suddenly vitalised.
The guitar slid down from her lap. She drew out the glass stopper,
holding the flask up a moment to the setting sun and letting it blaze
through the liquid. Then swiftly, as I made sure she would carry it
to her lips, she bent over Farrell and whispered some soft word of
the night that pierced his stupor so that he stirred and lolled his
head around. . . . Yes, and for a farewell kiss--which I watched
without jealousy. . . .
"But as their mouths drew apart, and before his swollen lips could
close again, she had slipped the mouth of the flask between them and
the cordial was pouring down his throat.
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