"Art sure 'tis the fourteenth to-day?"
With that we scrambled back into the room and searched for a calendar.
"Ay, lad!" he said ruefully as he discovered it; "'tis the fourteenth, not a doubt of it."
I flung myself dejectedly on the couch. The volume of Horace lay open by my hand, and I took it up, and quite idly, with no thought of what I was doing, I wrote this date and the name of the month and the date of the year on the margin of the page.
"Lord!" exclaimed Jack, flinging up his hands. "At the books again? Hast no boots and spurs?"
I slipped the book into my pocket, and sprang to my feet. In the heat of my anxiety I had forgotten everything but this half-spoken message. But, or ever I could make a step, the door of the bedroom opened and the surgeon stepped into the room.
"Can he speak now?" I asked.
"The fit has not passed," says he.
"Then in God's name, what ails the man?" cries Larke.
"It is a visitation," says the doctor, with an upward cast of his eyes.