CHAPTER XIII.
Henry Wimbush brought down with him to dinner a budget of printed sheetsloosely bound together in a cardboard portfolio.
"To-day," he said, exhibiting it with a certain solemnity, "to-day Ihave finished the printing of my 'History of Crome'. I helped to set upthe type of the last page this evening."
"The famous History?" cried Anne. The writing and the printing of thisMagnum Opus had been going on as long as she could remember. All herchildhood long Uncle Henry's History had been a vague and fabulousthing, often heard of and never seen.
"It has taken me nearly thirty years," said Mr. Wimbush. "Twenty-fiveyears of writing and nearly four of printing. And now it's finished--thewhole chronicle, from Sir Ferdinando Lapith's birth to the death of myfather William Wimbush--more than three centuries and a half: a historyof Crome, written at Crome, and printed at Crome by my own press."
"Shall we be allowed to read it now it's finished?" asked Denis.
Mr. Wimbush nodded. "Certainly," he said. "And I hope you will not findit uninteresting," he added modestly. "Our muniment room is particularlyrich in ancient records, and I have some genuinely new light to throw onthe introduction of the three-pronged fork."
"And the people?" asked Gombauld. "Sir Ferdinando and the rest ofthem--were they amusing? Were there any crimes or tragedies in thefamily?"
"Let me see," Henry Wimbush rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I can onlythink of two suicides, one violent death, four or perhaps five brokenhearts, and half a dozen little blots on the scutcheon in the way ofmisalliances, seductions, natural children, and the like. No, on thewhole, it's a placid and uneventful record."
"The Wimbushes and the Lapiths were always an unadventurous, respectablecrew," said Priscilla, with a note of scorn in her voice. "If I were towrite my family history now! Why, it would be one long continuous blotfrom beginning to end." She laughed jovially, and helped herself toanother glass of wine.
"If I were to write mine," Mr. Scogan remarked, "it wouldn't exist.After the second generation we Scogans are lost in the mists ofantiquity."
"After dinner," said Henry Wimbush, a little piqued by his wife'sdisparaging comment on the masters of Crome, "I'll read you an episodefrom my History that will make you admit that even the Lapiths, in theirown respectable way, had their tragedies and strange adventures."
"I'm glad to hear it," said Priscilla.
"Glad to hear what?" asked Jenny, emerging suddenly from her privateinterior world like a cuckoo from a clock. She received an explanation,smiled, nodded, cuckooed at last "I see," and popped back, clapping shutthe door behind her.
Dinner was eaten; the party had adjourned to the drawing-room.
"Now," said Henry Wimbush, pulling up a chair to the lamp. He put onhis round pince-nez, rimmed with tortoise-shell, and began cautiouslyto turn over the pages of his loose and still fragmentary book. He foundhis place at last. "Shall I begin?" he asked, looking up.
"Do," said Priscilla, yawning.
In the midst of an attentive silence Mr. Wimbush gave a littlepreliminary cough and started to read.
"The infant who was destined to become the fourth baronet of the name ofLapith was born in the year 1740. He was a very small baby, weighing notmore than three pounds at birth, but from the first he was sturdy andhealthy. In honour of his maternal grandfather, Sir Hercules Occam ofBishop's Occam, he was christened Hercules. His mother, like many othermothers, kept a notebook, in which his progress from month to month wasrecorded. He walked at ten months, and before his second year was outhe had learnt to speak a number of words. At three years he weighed buttwenty-four pounds, and at six, though he could read and write perfectlyand showed a remarkable aptitude for music, he was no larger and heavierthan a well-grown child of two. Meanwhile, his mother had borne twoother children, a boy and a girl, one of whom died of croup duringinfancy, while the other was carried off by smallpox before it reachedthe age of five. Hercules remained the only surviving child.
"On his twelfth birthday Hercules was still only three feet and twoinches in height. His head, which was very handsome and nobly shaped,was too big for his body, but otherwise he was exquisitely proportioned,and, for his size, of great strength and agility. His parents, in thehope of making him grow, consulted all the most eminent physicians ofthe time. Their various prescriptions were followed to the letter, butin vain. One ordered a very plentiful meat diet; another exercise; athird constructed a little rack, modelled on those employed by the HolyInquisition, on which young Hercules was stretched, with excruciatingtorments, for half an hour every morning and evening. In the course ofthe next three years Hercules gained perhaps two inches. After that hisgrowth stopped completely, and he remained for the rest of his life apigmy of three feet and four inches. His father, who had built the mostextravagant hopes upon his son, planning for him in his imaginationa military career equal to that of Marlborough, found himself adisappointed man. 'I have brought an abortion into the world,' he wouldsay, and he took so violent a dislike to his son that the boy daredscarcely come into his presence. His temper, which had been serene,was turned by disappointment to moroseness and savagery. He avoided allcompany (being, as he said, ashamed to show himself, the father of alusus naturae, among normal, healthy human beings), and took to solitarydrinking, which carried him very rapidly to his grave; for the yearbefore Hercules came of age his father was taken off by an apoplexy. Hismother, whose love for him had increased with the growth of his father'sunkindness, did not long survive, but little more than a year afterher husband's death succumbed, after eating two dozen of oysters, to anattack of typhoid fever.
"Hercules thus found himself at the age of twenty-one alone in theworld, and master of a considerable fortune, including the estate andmansion of Crome. The beauty and intelligence of his childhood hadsurvived into his manly age, and, but for his dwarfish stature, he wouldhave taken his place among the handsomest and most accomplished youngmen of his time. He was well read in the Greek and Latin authors, aswell as in all the moderns of any merit who had written in English,French, or Italian. He had a good ear for music, and was no indifferentperformer on the violin, which he used to play like a bass viol, seatedon a chair with the instrument between his legs. To the music of theharpsichord and clavichord he was extremely partial, but the smallnessof his hands made it impossible for him ever to perform upon theseinstruments. He had a small ivory flute made for him, on which,whenever he was melancholy, he used to play a simple country air or jig,affirming that this rustic music had more power to clear and raise thespirits than the most artificial productions of the masters. From anearly age he practised the composition of poetry, but, though consciousof his great powers in this art, he would never publish any specimen ofhis writing. 'My stature,' he would say, 'is reflected in my verses; ifthe public were to read them it would not be because I am a poet,but because I am a dwarf.' Several MS. books of Sir Hercules's poemssurvive. A single specimen will suffice to illustrate his qualities as apoet.
"'In ancient days, while yet the world was young, Ere Abram fed hisflocks or Homer sung; When blacksmith Tubal tamed creative fire, AndJabal dwelt in tents and Jubal struck the lyre; Flesh grown corruptbrought forth a monstrous birth And obscene giants trod the shrinkingearth, Till God, impatient of their sinful brood, Gave rein to wrathand drown'd them in the Flood. Teeming again, repeopled Tellus bore Thelubber Hero and the Man of War; Huge towers of Brawn, topp'd with anempty Skull, Witlessly bold, heroically dull. Long ages pass'd and Mangrown more refin'd, Slighter in muscle but of vaster Mind, Smiled at hisgrandsire's broadsword, bow and bill, And learn'd to wield the Penciland the Quill. The glowing canvas and the written page Immortaliz'd hisname from age to age, His name emblazon'd on Fame's temple wall; ForArt grew great as Humankind grew small. Thus man's long progress step bystep we trace; The Giant dies, the hero takes his place; The Giant vile,the dull heroic Block: At one we shudder and at one we mock. Manlast appears. In him the Soul's pure flame Burns brightlier in a notinord'nate frame. O
f old when Heroes fought and Giants swarmed, Men werehuge mounds of matter scarce inform'd; Wearied by leavening so vast amass, The spirit slept and all the mind was crass. The smaller carcaseof these later days Is soon inform'd; the Soul unwearied plays And likea Pharos darts abroad her mental rays. But can we think that Providencewill stay Man's footsteps here upon the upward way? Mankind inunderstanding and in grace Advanc'd so far beyond the Giants' race?Hence impious thought! Still led by GOD'S own Hand, Mankind proceedstowards the Promised Land. A time will come (prophetic, I descry Remoterdawns along the gloomy sky), When happy mortals of a Golden Age Willbackward turn the dark historic page, And in our vaunted race of Menbehold A form as gross, a Mind as dead and cold, As we in Giants see,in warriors of old. A time will come, wherein the soul shall be From allsuperfluous matter wholly free; When the light body, agile as a fawn's,Shall sport with grace along the velvet lawns. Nature's most delicateand final birth, Mankind perfected shall possess the earth. But ah, notyet! For still the Giants' race, Huge, though diminish'd, tramps theEarth's fair face; Gross and repulsive, yet perversely proud, Men oftheir imperfections boast aloud. Vain of their bulk, of all they stillretain Of giant ugliness absurdly vain; At all that's small they pointtheir stupid scorn And, monsters, think themselves divinely born. Sadis the Fate of those, ah, sad indeed, The rare precursors of the noblerbreed! Who come man's golden glory to foretell, But pointing Heav'nwardslive themselves in Hell.'
"As soon as he came into the estate, Sir Hercules set about remodellinghis household. For though by no means ashamed of his deformity--indeed,if we may judge from the poem quoted above, he regarded himself as beingin many ways superior to the ordinary race of man--he found the presenceof full-grown men and women embarrassing. Realising, too, that hemust abandon all ambitions in the great world, he determined to retireabsolutely from it and to create, as it were, at Crome a privateworld of his own, in which all should be proportionable to himself.Accordingly, he discharged all the old servants of the house andreplaced them gradually, as he was able to find suitable successors,by others of dwarfish stature. In the course of a few years he hadassembled about himself a numerous household, no member of which wasabove four feet high and the smallest among them scarcely two feet andsix inches. His father's dogs, such as setters, mastiffs, greyhounds,and a pack of beagles, he sold or gave away as too large and tooboisterous for his house, replacing them by pugs and King Charlesspaniels and whatever other breeds of dog were the smallest. Hisfather's stable was also sold. For his own use, whether riding ordriving, he had six black Shetland ponies, with four very choice piebaldanimals of New Forest breed.
"Having thus settled his household entirely to his own satisfaction, itonly remained for him to find some suitable companion with whom to sharehis paradise. Sir Hercules had a susceptible heart, and had more thanonce, between the ages of sixteen and twenty, felt what it was to love.But here his deformity had been a source of the most bitter humiliation,for, having once dared to declare himself to a young lady of his choice,he had been received with laughter. On his persisting, she had pickedhim up and shaken him like an importunate child, telling him to run awayand plague her no more. The story soon got about--indeed, the young ladyherself used to tell it as a particularly pleasant anecdote--andthe taunts and mockery it occasioned were a source of the most acutedistress to Hercules. From the poems written at this period we gatherthat he meditated taking his own life. In course of time, however, helived down this humiliation; but never again, though he often fell inlove, and that very passionately, did he dare to make any advances tothose in whom he was interested. After coming to the estate and findingthat he was in a position to create his own world as he desired it, hesaw that, if he was to have a wife--which he very much desired, beingof an affectionate and, indeed, amorous temper--he must choose her ashe had chosen his servants--from among the race of dwarfs. But to finda suitable wife was, he found, a matter of some difficulty; for he wouldmarry none who was not distinguished by beauty and gentle birth. Thedwarfish daughter of Lord Bemboro he refused on the ground that besidesbeing a pigmy she was hunchbacked; while another young lady, an orphanbelonging to a very good family in Hampshire, was rejected by himbecause her face, like that of so many dwarfs, was wizened andrepulsive. Finally, when he was almost despairing of success, heheard from a reliable source that Count Titimalo, a Venetian nobleman,possessed a daughter of exquisite beauty and great accomplishments, whowas by three feet in height. Setting out at once for Venice, he wentimmediately on his arrival to pay his respects to the count, whom hefound living with his wife and five children in a very mean apartmentin one of the poorer quarters of the town. Indeed, the count was so farreduced in his circumstances that he was even then negotiating (so itwas rumoured) with a travelling company of clowns and acrobats, who hadhad the misfortune to lose their performing dwarf, for the sale of hisdiminutive daughter Filomena. Sir Hercules arrived in time to save herfrom this untoward fate, for he was so much charmed by Filomena's graceand beauty, that at the end of three days' courtship he made her aformal offer of marriage, which was accepted by her no less joyfullythan by her father, who perceived in an English son-in-law a rich andunfailing source of revenue. After an unostentatious marriage, at whichthe English ambassador acted as one of the witnesses, Sir Hercules andhis bride returned by sea to England, where they settled down, as itproved, to a life of uneventful happiness.
"Crome and its household of dwarfs delighted Filomena, who felt herselfnow for the first time to be a free woman living among her equals ina friendly world. She had many tastes in common with her husband,especially that of music. She had a beautiful voice, of a powersurprising in one so small, and could touch A in alt without effort.Accompanied by her husband on his fine Cremona fiddle, which he played,as we have noted before, as one plays a bass viol, she would sing allthe liveliest and tenderest airs from the operas and cantatas of hernative country. Seated together at the harpsichord, they found that theycould with their four hands play all the music written for two handsof ordinary size, a circumstance which gave Sir Hercules unfailingpleasure.
"When they were not making music or reading together, which they oftendid, both in English and Italian, they spent their time in healthfuloutdoor exercises, sometimes rowing in a little boat on the lake, butmore often riding or driving, occupations in which, because they wereentirely new to her, Filomena especially delighted. When she had becomea perfectly proficient rider, Filomena and her husband used often to gohunting in the park, at that time very much more extensive than it isnow. They hunted not foxes nor hares, but rabbits, using a pack ofabout thirty black and fawn-coloured pugs, a kind of dog which, when notoverfed, can course a rabbit as well as any of the smaller breeds. Fourdwarf grooms, dressed in scarlet liveries and mounted on white Exmoorponies, hunted the pack, while their master and mistress, in greenhabits, followed either on the black Shetlands or on the piebald NewForest ponies. A picture of the whole hunt--dogs, horses, grooms, andmasters--was painted by William Stubbs, whose work Sir Hercules admiredso much that he invited him, though a man of ordinary stature, to comeand stay at the mansion for the purpose of executing this picture.Stubbs likewise painted a portrait of Sir Hercules and his lady drivingin their green enamelled calash drawn by four black Shetlands. SirHercules wears a plum-coloured velvet coat and white breeches; Filomenais dressed in flowered muslin and a very large hat with pink feathers.The two figures in their gay carriage stand out sharply against a darkbackground of trees; but to the left of the picture the trees fall awayand disappear, so that the four black ponies are seen against a pale andstrangely lurid sky that has the golden-brown colour of thunder-cloudslighted up by the sun.
"In this way four years passed happily by. At the end of that timeFilomena found herself great with child. Sir Hercules was overjoyed.'If God is good,' he wrote in his day-book, 'the name of Lapith will bepreserved and our rarer and more delicate race transmitted through thegenerations until in the fullness of time the world shall recognise thesuperiority of those beings
whom now it uses to make mock of.' On hiswife's being brought to bed of a son he wrote a poem to the same effect.The child was christened Ferdinando in memory of the builder of thehouse.
"With the passage of the months a certain sense of disquiet began toinvade the minds of Sir Hercules and his lady. For the child was growingwith an extraordinary rapidity. At a year he weighed as much as Herculeshad weighed when he was three. 'Ferdinando goes crescendo,' wroteFilomena in her diary. 'It seems not natural.' At eighteen months thebaby was almost as tall as their smallest jockey, who was a man ofthirty-six. Could it be that Ferdinando was destined to become a man ofthe normal, gigantic dimensions? It was a thought to which neither ofhis parents dared yet give open utterance, but in the secrecy of theirrespective diaries they brooded over it in terror and dismay.
"On his third birthday Ferdinando was taller than his mother and notmore than a couple of inches short of his father's height. 'To-day forthe first time' wrote Sir Hercules, 'we discussed the situation. Thehideous truth can be concealed no longer: Ferdinando is not one of us.On this, his third birthday, a day when we should have been rejoicing atthe health, the strength, and beauty of our child, we wept together overthe ruin of our happiness. God give us strength to bear this cross.'
"At the age of eight Ferdinando was so large and so exuberantly healthythat his parents decided, though reluctantly, to send him to school.He was packed off to Eton at the beginning of the next half. A profoundpeace settled upon the house. Ferdinando returned for the summerholidays larger and stronger than ever. One day he knocked down thebutler and broke his arm. 'He is rough, inconsiderate, unamenable topersuasion,' wrote his father. 'The only thing that will teach himmanners is corporal chastisement.' Ferdinando, who at this age wasalready seventeen inches taller than his father, received no corporalchastisement.
"One summer holidays about three years later Ferdinando returned toCrome accompanied by a very large mastiff dog. He had bought it from anold man at Windsor who had found the beast too expensive to feed. Itwas a savage, unreliable animal; hardly had it entered the house when itattacked one of Sir Hercules's favourite pugs, seizing the creature inits jaws and shaking it till it was nearly dead. Extremely put out bythis occurrence, Sir Hercules ordered that the beast should be chainedup in the stable-yard. Ferdinando sullenly answered that the dog washis, and he would keep it where he pleased. His father, growing angry,bade him take the animal out of the house at once, on pain of his utmostdispleasure. Ferdinando refused to move. His mother at this momentcoming into the room, the dog flew at her, knocked her down, and ina twinkling had very severely mauled her arm and shoulder; in anotherinstant it must infallibly have had her by the throat, had not SirHercules drawn his sword and stabbed the animal to the heart. Turning onhis son, he ordered him to leave the room immediately, as being unfit toremain in the same place with the mother whom he had nearly murdered. Soawe-inspiring was the spectacle of Sir Hercules standing with one footon the carcase of the gigantic dog, his sword drawn and still bloody, socommanding were his voice, his gestures, and the expression of his facethat Ferdinando slunk out of the room in terror and behaved himselffor all the rest of the vacation in an entirely exemplary fashion. Hismother soon recovered from the bites of the mastiff, but the effect onher mind of this adventure was ineradicable; from that time forth shelived always among imaginary terrors.
"The two years which Ferdinando spent on the Continent, making the GrandTour, were a period of happy repose for his parents. But even nowthe thought of the future haunted them; nor were they able to solacethemselves with all the diversions of their younger days. The LadyFilomena had lost her voice and Sir Hercules was grown too rheumaticalto play the violin. He, it is true, still rode after his pugs, but hiswife felt herself too old and, since the episode of the mastiff, toonervous for such sports. At most, to please her husband, she wouldfollow the hunt at a distance in a little gig drawn by the safest andoldest of the Shetlands.
"The day fixed for Ferdinando's return came round. Filomena, sick withvague dreads and presentiments, retired to her chamber and her bed.Sir Hercules received his son alone. A giant in a brown travelling-suitentered the room. 'Welcome home, my son,' said Sir Hercules in a voicethat trembled a little.
"'I hope I see you well, sir.' Ferdinando bent down to shake hands, thenstraightened himself up again. The top of his father's head reached tothe level of his hip.
"Ferdinando had not come alone. Two friends of his own age accompaniedhim, and each of the young men had brought a servant. Not for thirtyyears had Crome been desecrated by the presence of so many members ofthe common race of men. Sir Hercules was appalled and indignant, but thelaws of hospitality had to be obeyed. He received the young gentlemenwith grave politeness and sent the servants to the kitchen, with ordersthat they should be well cared for.
"The old family dining-table was dragged out into the light and dusted(Sir Hercules and his lady were accustomed to dine at a small tabletwenty inches high). Simon, the aged butler, who could only just lookover the edge of the big table, was helped at supper by the threeservants brought by Ferdinando and his guests.
"Sir Hercules presided, and with his usual grace supported aconversation on the pleasures of foreign travel, the beauties of art andnature to be met with abroad, the opera at Venice, the singing of theorphans in the churches of the same city, and on other topics of asimilar nature. The young men were not particularly attentive to hisdiscourses; they were occupied in watching the efforts of the butler tochange the plates and replenish the glasses. They covered their laughterby violent and repeated fits of coughing or choking. Sir Herculesaffected not to notice, but changed the subject of the conversation tosport. Upon this one of the young men asked whether it was true, as hehad heard, that he used to hunt the rabbit with a pack of pug dogs. SirHercules replied that it was, and proceeded to describe the chase insome detail. The young men roared with laughter.
"When supper was over, Sir Hercules climbed down from his chair and,giving as his excuse that he must see how his lady did, bade themgood-night. The sound of laughter followed him up the stairs. Filomenawas not asleep; she had been lying on her bed listening to the sound ofenormous laughter and the tread of strangely heavy feet on the stairsand along the corridors. Sir Hercules drew a chair to her bedsideand sat there for a long time in silence, holding his wife's hand andsometimes gently squeezing it. At about ten o'clock they were startledby a violent noise. There was a breaking of glass, a stamping of feet,with an outburst of shouts and laughter. The uproar continuing forseveral minutes, Sir Hercules rose to his feet and, in spite of hiswife's entreaties, prepared to go and see what was happening. Therewas no light on the staircase, and Sir Hercules groped his way downcautiously, lowering himself from stair to stair and standing for amoment on each tread before adventuring on a new step. The noise waslouder here; the shouting articulated itself into recognisable wordsand phrases. A line of light was visible under the dining-room door. SirHercules tiptoed across the hall towards it. Just as he approached thedoor there was another terrific crash of breaking glass and jangledmetal. What could they be doing? Standing on tiptoe he managed to lookthrough the keyhole. In the middle of the ravaged table old Simon, thebutler, so primed with drink that he could scarcely keep his balance,was dancing a jig. His feet crunched and tinkled among the broken glass,and his shoes were wet with spilt wine. The three young men sat round,thumping the table with their hands or with the empty wine bottles,shouting and laughing encouragement. The three servants leaning againstthe wall laughed too. Ferdinando suddenly threw a handful of walnuts atthe dancer's head, which so dazed and surprised the little man that hestaggered and fell down on his back, upsetting a decanter and severalglasses. They raised him up, gave him some brandy to drink, thumpedhim on the back. The old man smiled and hiccoughed. 'To-morrow,' saidFerdinando, 'we'll have a concerted ballet of the whole household.''With father Hercules wearing his club and lion-skin,' added one of hiscompanions, and all three roared with laughter.
"Sir Hercules
would look and listen no further. He crossed the hall oncemore and began to climb the stairs, lifting his knees painfully highat each degree. This was the end; there was no place for him now in theworld, no place for him and Ferdinando together.
"His wife was still awake; to her questioning glance he answered, 'Theyare making mock of old Simon. To-morrow it will be our turn.' They weresilent for a time.
"At last Filomena said, 'I do not want to see to-morrow.'
"'It is better not,' said Sir Hercules. Going into his closet he wrotein his day-book a full and particular account of all the events of theevening. While he was still engaged in this task he rang for a servantand ordered hot water and a bath to be made ready for him at eleveno'clock. When he had finished writing he went into his wife's room, andpreparing a dose of opium twenty times as strong as that which shewas accustomed to take when she could not sleep, he brought it to her,saying, 'Here is your sleeping-draught.'
"Filomena took the glass and lay for a little time, but did not drinkimmediately. The tears came into her eyes. 'Do you remember the songs weused to sing, sitting out there sulla terrazza in the summer-time?' Shebegan singing softly in her ghost of a cracked voice a few bars fromStradella's 'Amor amor, non dormir piu.' 'And you playing on the violin,it seems such a short time ago, and yet so long, long, long. Addio,amore, a rivederti.' She drank off the draught and, lying back on thepillow, closed her eyes. Sir Hercules kissed her hand and tiptoed away,as though he were afraid of waking her. He returned to his closet, andhaving recorded his wife's last words to him, he poured into his baththe water that had been brought up in accordance with his orders. Thewater being too hot for him to get into the bath at once, he took downfrom the shelf his copy of Suetonius. He wished to read how Seneca haddied. He opened the book at random. 'But dwarfs,' he read, 'he held inabhorrence as being lusus naturae and of evil omen.' He winced as thoughhe had been struck. This same Augustus, he remembered, had exhibited inthe amphitheatre a young man called Lucius, of good family, who wasnot quite two feet in height and weighed seventeen pounds, but hada stentorian voice. He turned over the pages. Tiberius, Caligula,Claudius, Nero: it was a tale of growing horror. 'Seneca his preceptor,he forced to kill himself.' And there was Petronius, who had calledhis friends about him at the last, bidding them talk to him, not of theconsolations of philosophy, but of love and gallantry, while the lifewas ebbing away through his opened veins. Dipping his pen once more inthe ink he wrote on the last page of his diary: 'He died a Roman death.'Then, putting the toes of one foot into the water and finding that itwas not too hot, he threw off his dressing-gown and, taking a razor inhis hand, sat down in the bath. With one deep cut he severed the arteryin his left wrist, then lay back and composed his mind to meditation.The blood oozed out, floating through the water in dissolving wreathsand spirals. In a little while the whole bath was tinged with pink. Thecolour deepened; Sir Hercules felt himself mastered by an invincibledrowsiness; he was sinking from vague dream to dream. Soon he was soundasleep. There was not much blood in his small body."