Beatrice Grimshaw,
The Jumping Bamboo
(1913)
“ The Marquis was sitting up on his bed, looking white and drawn. “It is the 'touch of death,'” he said. “I have felt it—cold as—as nothing but death is cold.” He sat like a statue; his hand had let mine go and was gripping tight to the edge of the bed. I was up in a moment, and looking ail round the tent. There was not a thing to be seen. Having searched, I put out the light again and waited. It is not a good thing to make yourself a target for possible arrows shot in the dark. I could hear the Marquis breathing heavily. ”
