The sick man nodded. Life and consciousness were slowly returning and with them understanding and the capacity for suffering.
"And Luke is accused of having murdered him."
The trembling of the hands ceased. With a quick, jerky movement they were drawn back against the figure, then used as a leverage. With a sudden accession of strength, the sick man slowly but steadily drew himself up, away from the pillows, until he was almost sitting up in bed. There was understanding in the eyes now, understanding and an awful look of horror.
"It is not true!" he murmured.
"It is true," she said. "Luke was known to have quarrelled with Philip de Mountford, and the dagger-stick with which the crime was committed was found in the park—stained with blood—the dagger-stick which belonged to Luke."
"Luke didn't do it," murmured the sick man.
"I know that he didn't," she replied firmly, "but he pleads guilty. He owns that the stick was his, and will give no denial, no explanation. He is taking upon himself the crime of another——"
"It is not true!" once more murmured the sick man.
Then he fell back exhausted against the pillows.
There he lay once more, with that awful stillness of death: the hands rested on the quilt as if modelled in wax. The eyes were closed, and from between the pale, parted lips not the faintest breath seemed to escape. Helpless and anxious, Louisa looked round her. On a table close by stood an array of bottles. She went up to it, trying to read the labels, wondering if there was anything there that was a powerful restorative. She found a small bottle labelled "brandy" and took it up in her hand, but as she looked up again, she saw Doctor Newington standing in the doorway of the boudoir. One of the nurses was with him, and he was armed with his most pompous and most professional manner.