Wilhelm, horrified, took his friend's hand. It was still quite warm.
His agonizing look sought Schrotter's, who answered in a hushed
voice, "He is dead."
Then his tears broke out, and his trembling fingers had hardly
strength to close the lids over his friend's eyes, those eyes which
looked so strangely quiet and peaceful as if they now knew the
answer to the Great Secret.
CHAPTER VIII.
DARK DAYS.
Dorfling's suicide made a profound impression on Wilhelm, and for
months he was haunted by the vision of that motionless form with its
white face and blood-stained breast. It had a weird fascination for
him, causing him to revert constantly to that tragical May night
that had begun with a cheerful dinner, and ended in a fatal pistol
shot. Paul's comment on the occurrence was short and concise. "The
poor chap was mad," he said, and there the matter ended as far as he
was concerned. Mayboom revered his friend's memory as he would a
saint, and erected a kind of chapel to him in his house, in which
Dorfling's portrait, his book, and various objects belonging to him,
thrown up in relief against draperies and surrounded by a variety of
symbolical accessories, were set forth for the pious delectation of
the master of the house and his visitors.
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