Perhaps some words of my outcry reached him through the hurtling of the storm. Perhaps he recognized me, for I saw him shrink down and cower behind the stones of the bridge. I rattled to the window, pulled down the blind and turned myself to the stricken figure on the bed. As I did so old Peggy came breathing and shambling into the room.
“What’s to do?” she said, coughing feebly and glaring at me. “What’s to do, Renalt?”
“Look there! What’s happened—what’s the matter with him? It is death, perhaps!”
She shuffled to the bedside, holding in her groaning chest with one hand. For a minute she must have stood gazing down.
“Ay,” she said at last, leering round at me. “The Lord mistook the room, looking in at winder. Ralph it was were wanted—not old Peggy, praise to His goodness.”
“Is he dying?”
“Maybe—maybe not yet awhile. The dumbstroke have tuk him.”
“Paralysis?”
“So they carls it. Better ax the doctor.”
“Look you to him, then, and look well, while I run out to seek for one. I leave him in your charge.”