Читать «Cup of Gold (Золотая чаша)» онлайн - страница 97

Misery was writing lines about his eyes. "I do not know," he said. "I must have known, but I have forgotten."

Coeur de Gris went slowly to his knees. He steadied himself with his knuckles on the floor. "It is my knees, sir; they will not bear me any more," he apologized. He seemed to be listening for the throbbing sound again. Suddenly his voice rose in bitter complaint.

"It is a legend that dying men think of their deeds done. No-No-I think of what I have not done-of what I might have done in the years that are dying with me. I think of the lips of women I have never seen-of the wine that is sleeping in a grape seed-of the quick, warm caress of my mother in Goaves.

But mostly I think that I shall never walk about again-never, never stroll in the sunshine nor smell the rich essences the full moon conjures up out of the earth-Sir, why did you do it?"

Henry Morgan was staring at the pistol again. "I do not know," he muttered sullenly. "I must have known, but I have forgotten. I killed a dog once-and I have just killed Jones. I do not know why."

"You are a great man, Captain," Coeur de Gris said bitterly. "Great men may leave their reasons for the creative bands of their apologists. But I-why, sir, I am nothing any more-nothing. A moment ago I was an excellent swordsman; but now, my being-that which fought, and cursed, and loved-it may never have been, for all I know." His wrists weakened and he fell to his side and lay there coughing at the obstruction in his throat. Then, for a time, there was no sound in the room save his uneven gasping for breath. But suddenly he raised himself on one elbow and laughed; laughed at some cosmic joke, some jest of the great rolling spheres; laughed triumphantly, as though he had solved a puzzle and found how simple it was. A wave of blood rode to his lips on the laughter, and filled up his throat. The laugh became a gushing sigh, and Coeur de Gris sank slowly to his side and was still, because his lungs would no longer force breath.

Henry still stared at the pistol in his hand. Slowly he raised his eyes to the open window. The streaming rays of the sun made the treasure on the floor glow like a mass of hot metal. His eyes wandered to the body in front of him. He shuddered. And then he went to Coeur de Gris, picked him up, and sat him in a chair. The limp body fell over to one side. Henry straightened it and braced it in an upright position. Then he went back to his serpent chair.

"I raised my hand like this-" he said, pointing the pistol at Coeur de Gris. "I raised my hand like this. I must have. Coeur de Gris is dead. Like this, I raised it-like this-and pointed-How did I do it?" He bowed his head, then raised it with a chuckle.

"Coeur de Gris!" he said; "Coeur de Otis! I wanted to tell you about La Santa Roja. She rides horses, you know. She has no womanly modesty at all-none at all-and her looks are only moderate." He peered at the propped figure before him. The eyes of Coeur de Gris had been only half closed, but now the lids slipped down and the eyes began to sink back in his head. On his face was the frozen distortion of his last bitter laughter.