Bowed down with affliction, yet with sufficient self-command to be calm and composed in his manner, Mr. Ewart approached the bed-side of Ernest.
“What do the doctors say of me?” asked Fontonore.
“They say that the injuries which you have received are very severe.”
“I thought so—I suffer so much pain. I daresay that it will be long before I quite recover. But you see,” he added, with a faint smile, “good comes out of evil in this case. I took advantage of the privilege of illness, and the claim which your having saved me has given you, and asked my uncle a favour which he could not refuse me; nor will you, I am sure, dear Mr. Ewart: you will be tutor at Fontonore again!”
The clergyman pressed in silence the feverish hand held out to him; he could not at that moment reply.
“We shall be so happy, if I only get well! You do not know how we have missed you! You will—will you not?—be the pilgrim’s guide again!”
“You have come to a part of your journey, my beloved pupil, in which God can alone be your guide.” He felt that the deep eyes of Ernest were riveted upon him; he could not endure to meet their inquiring gaze. Shading his own with his hand, he continued: “When Christian had passed through the land of Beulah, and drew near to the celestial city, he saw a river flowing before him—”
“The river of death!” murmured Ernest, and for some moments there was profound silence in the room. It was first broken by the voice of the sufferer.
“Is there no chance of my recovery?”
“I fear none,” faltered the clergyman.