“I have the honour to see you well, sir, I hope.”
“There is one here very far from well,” resumed Sir Archy, neither caring for, nor considering the speech. “We have lost too much time already—I trust ye may na be too late now.”
The doctor made no reply, but rudely taking the candle from his hand, walked towards the bed—
“Ay, ay,” muttered he, as he beheld the lustrous eyes and widespread pupils—the rose-red cheek, and dry, cracked lips of the youth; “he has it sure enough.”
“Has what?—what is it?”
“The fever—brain fever, and the worst kind of it too.”
“And there is danger then?” whispered M'Nab.
“Danger, indeed! I wonder how many come through it. Pshaw! there's no use trying to count his pulse;” and he threw the hand rudely back upon the bed. “That's going as fast as ever his father went with the property.” A harsh, low, cackling laugh followed this brutal speech, which demanded all Sir Archy's predetermined endurance to suffer unchecked.
“Do you know me?” said the doctor, in the loud voice used to awaken the dormant faculty of hearing. “Do you know me?”
“Yes,” replied the boy, staring steadfastly at him.