| Author: | Arthur H Adams | ISBN: | 1230000139088 |
| Publisher: | WDS Publishing | Publication: | June 4, 2013 |
| Imprint: | Language: | English |
| Author: | Arthur H Adams |
| ISBN: | 1230000139088 |
| Publisher: | WDS Publishing |
| Publication: | June 4, 2013 |
| Imprint: | |
| Language: | English |
"Well," sighed the nurse. "He's gone!"
She had seen so many deaths that the experience had become a commonplace
in that big London hospital. She peered down at him with a professional
scrutiny. Yes, another of them. Everybody died at last; they all came to
it.
In this case, a fatal accident in a London street, there was nothing to
be done. No hope at all...a cracked skull. The resident surgeon had
looked at him, and passed on to his other duties. A matter of routine.
The police must be called for identification.
"A cracked skull. Street accident. A hopeless case," was the resident's
report.
He was swiftly put to bed, unconscious. The nurses were busy. He might
linger for a little time, but he would not awaken to any recognition of
the world he was leaving, though there might possibly be a final flicker
of the man's consciousness; the eyes might open and he would look at the
white ceiling of the ward. White...just whiteness. All the amazing
miracle of a human being in this world, dissolved into white; and after
that, the utter dark.
The nurse looked at him. A man of sixty, perhaps, with clear-cut
features. His clothes were good. Perhaps a gentleman. Some money in his
pocket. She was somewhat curious; she wondered who he was.
"Well," she said again to herself, "he's gone, poor thing!"
She was to be forgiven, with all her experience in the casualty ward, in
thinking that the man was dead. True, she could see no sign of life in
that still warm body. But the nurse was alive; and the living do not know
what the dying think.
For in that final flash of Life there had surged into the man's
consciousness one thing after the other that he had done or thought of
since childhood. His whole life flashed up in disconnected scenes,
pictures startlingly vivid leaping into his mind, and as abruptly dying.
There was no order in these pictures. With the amazing speed of thought,
whole stories and incidents leaped into being, and even trivial moods and
subconscious phases, recaptured from his memory.
Though light travels with an inconceivable swiftness, the speed of
thought is a million times swifter.
"Well," sighed the nurse. "He's gone!"
She had seen so many deaths that the experience had become a commonplace
in that big London hospital. She peered down at him with a professional
scrutiny. Yes, another of them. Everybody died at last; they all came to
it.
In this case, a fatal accident in a London street, there was nothing to
be done. No hope at all...a cracked skull. The resident surgeon had
looked at him, and passed on to his other duties. A matter of routine.
The police must be called for identification.
"A cracked skull. Street accident. A hopeless case," was the resident's
report.
He was swiftly put to bed, unconscious. The nurses were busy. He might
linger for a little time, but he would not awaken to any recognition of
the world he was leaving, though there might possibly be a final flicker
of the man's consciousness; the eyes might open and he would look at the
white ceiling of the ward. White...just whiteness. All the amazing
miracle of a human being in this world, dissolved into white; and after
that, the utter dark.
The nurse looked at him. A man of sixty, perhaps, with clear-cut
features. His clothes were good. Perhaps a gentleman. Some money in his
pocket. She was somewhat curious; she wondered who he was.
"Well," she said again to herself, "he's gone, poor thing!"
She was to be forgiven, with all her experience in the casualty ward, in
thinking that the man was dead. True, she could see no sign of life in
that still warm body. But the nurse was alive; and the living do not know
what the dying think.
For in that final flash of Life there had surged into the man's
consciousness one thing after the other that he had done or thought of
since childhood. His whole life flashed up in disconnected scenes,
pictures startlingly vivid leaping into his mind, and as abruptly dying.
There was no order in these pictures. With the amazing speed of thought,
whole stories and incidents leaped into being, and even trivial moods and
subconscious phases, recaptured from his memory.
Though light travels with an inconceivable swiftness, the speed of
thought is a million times swifter.
