bed. The bed seemed to heave, the room flamed with terror. He thought of
his friend; on other nights he had invoked him, and instantly there had
been assurance and comfort. Now that was of no avail; his friend would
not come. He was utterly alone. Panic drove him; he thought that there,
on the farther side of the bed, claws and a black arm appeared. He
screamed and screamed and screamed.

The door was flung open, there were lights, his nurse appeared. He was
lying down now, his face towards the wall, and only dry, hard little
sobs came from him. Her large red hand was upon his shoulder, but
brought no comfort with it. Of what use was she against the three
beasts? A poor creature.... He was ashamed that he should cry before
her. He bit his lip.

"Dreaming, I suppose, sir," she said to some one behind her. Another
figure came forward. Some one sat down on the edge of the bed, put his
arm round Ernest Henry's body and drew him towards him. For one wild
moment Ernest Henry fancied that his friend had, after all, returned.
But no. He knew that these were the conditions of this world, not of
that other. When he crept close to his friend he was caught up into a
soft, rosy comfort, was conscious of nothing except ease and rest. Here
there were knobs and hard little buttons, and at first his head was
pressed against a cold, slippery surface that hurt. Nevertheless, the
pressure was pleasant and comforting. A warm hand stroked his hair. He
liked it, jerked his head up, and hit his new friend's chin.

"Oh, damn!" he heard quite clearly. This was a new sound to Ernest
Henry; but just now he was interested in sounds, and had learnt lately
quite a number. This was a soft, pleasant, easy sound. He liked it.