“Don't alarm yourselves for that,” said Sampson; “it is nothing: a mere flesh-wound. It is the vein-wound that alarms me. This school knows nothing about the paroxysms and remissions of disease. They have bled and cupped him for a passing fit. It has passed into the cold stage, but no quicker than it would have done without stealing a drop of blood. To-morrow, by disease's nature, he will have another hot fit in spite of their bleeding. Then those ijjits would leech his temples; and on that paroxysm remitting by the nature of the disease, would fancy their leeches had cured it.”
The words were the old words, but the tone and manner was so different: no shouting, no anger: all was spoken low and gently, and with a sort of sad and weary and worn-out air.
He ordered a kettle of hot water and a quantity of mustard, and made his preparations for the hot fit, as he called it, maintaining the intermittent and febrile character of all disease.
The patient rambled a good deal, but quite incoherently, and knew nobody.
But about eight o'clock in the morning he was quite quiet and apparently sleeping: so Mrs. Dodd stole out of the room to order some coffee for Sampson and Edward. They were nodding, worn out with watching.
Julia, whose high-strung nature could dispense with sleep on such an occasion, was on her knees praying for her father.
Suddenly there came from the bed, like a thunder-clap, two words uttered loud and furiously—
“HARDIE! VILLAIN!”
Up started the drowsy watchers, and rubbed their eyes. They had heard the sound, but not the sense.
Julia rose from her knees bewildered and aghast: she had caught the strange words distinctly—words that were to haunt her night and day.