Guy clung to the hand of flesh and blood as if he had been drowning. He hid his face, not hearing one word that Cuthbert said. He was not merely suffering terror, but struggling, fighting to free himself, to escape, to separate himself from the influence that seemed to be upon him, resisting and opposing it with all his strength. “Oh, help—help!” he gasped.
“Yes—yes, my dear boy. Lie still. It will pass off directly.”
And very soon, in two or three minutes, as Cuthbert counted time, the agony seemed to cease, and Guy dropped back, deadly faint, but with closed eyes and smooth brow.
Cuthbert brought him, as soon as he let go his desperate hold, some of the remedy provided by the doctor, and tended him with a care and kindness altogether new to him.
“It’s much better with you here,” said Guy, presently, as if half-surprised.
“Of course it is. You were so tired; no wonder a bad dream upset you.”
Guy lifted his heavy eyes for a moment, and looked at him.
“A very bad dream,” he said drily. “It’s over now.”
“Tell me what it was?”
“He came, that’s all. No, I can’t tell you. You don’t understand; but you help.”