Johnny was close on the edge of his long sleep by that time, and very
comfortable.

"Tell her nix on the sob stuff," he complained. "Ask her to play 'I'm
twenty-one and she's eighteen.'"

She was rather outraged, but on K.'s quick explanation she changed to the
staccato air.

"Ask her if she'll come a little nearer; I can't hear her."

So she moved to the foot of the bed, and to the gay little tune Johnny
began his long sleep. But first he asked K. a question: "Are you sure I'm
going to walk, Mr. Le Moyne?"

"I give you my solemn word," said K. huskily, "that you are going to be
better than you have ever been in your life."

It was K. who, seeing he would no longer notice, ordered the screens to be
set around the bed, K. who drew the coverings smooth and folded the boy's
hands over his breast.

The violin-player stood by uncertainly.

"How very young he is! Was it an accident?"

"It was the result of a man's damnable folly," said K. grimly. "Somebody
always pays."

And so Johnny Rosenfeld paid.

The immediate result of his death was that K., who had gained some of his
faith in himself on seeing Wilson on the way to recovery, was beset by his
old doubts. What right had he to arrogate to himself again powers of life
and death? Over and over he told himself that there had been no
carelessness here, that the boy would have died ultimately, that he had
taken the only chance, that the boy himself had known the risk and begged
for it.