of joy, the revulsion of every sentiment, had been too much for her frame,

worn by long months of care, late shattered by every species of woe and

toil. She was now in far greater danger than I, the wheels and springs of

my life, once again set in motion, acquired elasticity from their short

suspension. For a long time, no one believed that I should indeed continue

to live; during the reign of the plague upon earth, not one person,

attacked by the grim disease, had recovered. My restoration was looked on

as a deception; every moment it was expected that the evil symptoms would

recur with redoubled violence, until confirmed convalescence, absence of

all fever or pain, and encreasing strength, brought slow conviction that I

had recovered from the plague.

The restoration of Idris was more problematical. When I had been attacked

by illness, her cheeks were sunk, her form emaciated; but now, the vessel,

which had broken from the effects of extreme agitation, did not entirely

heal, but was as a channel that drop by drop drew from her the ruddy stream

that vivified her heart. Her hollow eyes and worn countenance had a ghastly

appearance; her cheek-bones, her open fair brow, the projection of the

mouth, stood fearfully prominent; you might tell each bone in the thin

anatomy of her frame. Her hand hung powerless; each joint lay bare, so that

the light penetrated through and through. It was strange that life could

exist in what was wasted and worn into a very type of death.

To take her from these heart-breaking scenes, to lead her to forget the

world's desolation in the variety of objects presented by travelling, and

to nurse her failing strength in the mild climate towards which we had

452

The Last Man