Friday, 23 March 2012

Love is...

For the better part of a fortnight the Pantymime Horse lay where they had placed him on the grass, undergoing, with intermissions of fever and delirium, the tedious stages of convalescence. Harry seemed never to leave him, attending to his wants, brushing away the flies, feeding and washing him with an anxious solemnity that at times almost awed Garry. His brilliant eyes, as black and limpid as some wild animal's, watched him with an unceasing stare. He often wondered what was passing in his graceful head as he lay looking up at him, too weak to speak, the drowsy hours succeeding one another in an unbroken silence. Once, when he ran his hand over his face and recollected with a pang how old and ugly he must seem to him, he had understood the sigh that expressed his own self-disgust, and had bent over and kissed him on the lips. From that moment his love for him deepened into an emotion transcending anything he had ever felt before. He saw now that to separate himself from him would be to break both their hearts; that, for good or evil, he was his and he his; that fate had indeed joined them forever.