There were still a considerable number of persons on foot in the court when the Duke descended, but only one equipage remained,—a hired carriage,—at the open door of which a servant was standing, holding a glass of water for his master.
“Can I be of any use to your master?” said the Duke, approaching. “Is he ill?”
“I fear he has burst a blood-vessel, sir,” said the man. “He is too weak to answer me.”
“Who is it,—what 's his name?”
“I am not able to tell you, sir; I only accompanied him from the hotel.”
“Let us have a doctor at once; he appears to be dying,” said the Duke, as he placed his fingers on the sick man's wrist. “Let some one go for a physician.”
“There is one here,” cried a voice. “I'm a doctor;” and Billy Traynor pushed his way to the spot. “Come, Master Charles, get into the coach and help me to lift him out.”
Young Massy obeyed, and not without difficulty they succeeded at last in disengaging the almost lifeless form of a man whose dark domino was perfectly saturated with fresh blood; his half mask still covered his face, and, to screen his features from the vulgar gaze of the crowd, they suffered it to remain there.
Up the wide stairs and into a spacious salon they now carried the figure, whose drooping head and hanging limbs gave little signs of life. They placed him on a sofa, and Traynor, with a ready hand, untied the mask and removed it. “Merciful Heavens,” cried he, “it's my Lord himself!”
The youth bent down, gazed for a few seconds at the corpse-like face, and fell fainting to the floor.