“Tut, man, we’ve no time for quarrelling. Nothing else would rouse you. It’s five o’clock.”
“I’ll thank you, Colonel Sapt—” I began again, hot in spirit, though I was uncommonly cold in body.
“Rassendyll,” interrupted Fritz, getting down from the table and taking my arm, “look here.”
The King lay full length on the floor. His face was red as his hair, and he breathed heavily. Sapt, the disrespectful old dog, kicked him sharply. He did not stir, nor was there any break in his breathing. I saw that his face and head were wet with water, as were mine.
“We’ve spent half an hour on him,” said Fritz.
“He drank three times what either of you did,” growled Sapt.
I knelt down and felt his pulse. It was alarmingly languid and slow. We three looked at one another.
“Was it drugged—that last bottle?” I asked in a whisper.
“I don’t know,” said Sapt.
“We must get a doctor.”