George as he stared, spell-stricken--as if
_youth_ had returned.
St. George slipped down upon the stones and sat motionless. There
was a little blue, forked vein on the man's forehead, and upon this
he fastened his eyes, mechanically following it downward and back.
Lines had crossed it, and there had been a deep cleft between the
eyes, but these had disappeared, leaving the brow almost smooth. The
cheeks were now tinged with colour, and the throat, where he had
pulled aside the robe, showed firm and white. Mechanically St.
George passed his hand along the inert arm, and it was no more
withered than his own--the arm of no greybeard, but of a man in the
prime of life. What did it mean--what did it mean? St. George
waited, the blood throbbing in his temples, a mist before his eyes.
What did it mean?
The minutes dragged by and still the unconscious man did not stir or
unclose his eyes. From time to time St. George pressed his hand to
the heart, and found it beating on rhythmically, powerfully. When he
found himself sitting with averted head, as if he were afraid to
look back at that changing face, a fear seized him that he had lost
his reason and that what he imagined himself to see was a phase of
madness.
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