Page:Storm Over Paris.pdf/157

"Are you sick?" his mother repeated.

Yurek's contorted face smoothened, and he forced a faint smile to his lips. "Yes, mother," he said. "I don't feel exactly right." He turned his face to avoid his mother's searching eyes and hurried off to his own room.

Here he threw himself on the bed and lay flat on his back, trying to relax, not moving a muscle for what seemed hours. The voices from the people in the dining room came to him as from far away. He heard the tinkle of dishes, forks and spoons. Yet there was no feeling anywhere in him. His mind seemed to have been drained dry. He let the noise from the other room à envelop him, like strong arms, lifting him and transporting him across some half-frozen sea. He was floating on the waves, flat on his back, arms stretched out like oars. And somehow there was the feeling that never, never again would he be able to stand on his legs. This he felt with overwhelming conviction, yet somehow the knowledge didn't disturb him. The waters carried him on farther and farther; deeper and blacker became the abyss below him. . . Until he felt a cool touch on his forehead, and opened his eyes to see his mother standing over him.

"What of the man--the man who was supposed to come?" he managed to stammer.

"He came. He came," she smiled contentedly. "They've gone down for a walk. All we need now is God's good favor."