"Good God! What's the matter with his arm?" whispered Gerald hoarsely. Sophy felt sick to death. Life seemed to her like a sickness—a disease. She, too, had caught a glimpse of the disfigured flesh.
"Result of the fever, your lordship," said Gaynor in a low voice. He thrust the needle skilfully home between two less recent punctures. Gerald drew back as though it had entered his own arm.
"He'll revive now, your lordship," said the valet in the same even voice. They waited. Cecil lay there motionless, his lip still curled back over his teeth. After a few moments:
"Brandy!" he breathed again.
"For God's sake, give it to him ... give it to him, Sophy!" Gerald urged.
Gaynor had his master's wrist in his fingers. "His pulse is slow, madam, but not bad," he said. Yet there was something of alarm, too, in his quiet face. They waited a few seconds. Then Chesney's lips again just formed the word that he seemed no longer able to utter.
"Oh, try the brandy—just try it!" Gerald said again.
Sophy looked at Gaynor. His eyes were on his master's face.
"Gaynor—do you think? Might we?"
"I hardly know what to say, madam."