The doctor looked at the distorted face and wild eyes, and setting down the bottle he had in his hand, took up another and poured out a draught.
“Drink that,” he said. “Drink that, man! For God’s sake, calm yourself, or I shall have a mad man, as well as a sick woman, on my hands.”
Trafford raised the cup with trembling hands to his burning lips, and pushed the hair, damp with sweat, from his brow.
The doctor led him to a mound under a tree.
“Lie down there, and try and sleep,” he said. “Keep quiet, at any rate; if not for your own sake, for hers. If she should come to and ask for you, and you presented yourself in your condition, I wouldn’t answer for the consequences.”
Trafford sunk upon the mound and covered his face with his hands as a sob shook him from head to foot.
“Yes, yes!” he said. “Tell her— Oh, God! let me go to her the moment she wakes!”