The young man, who up to this time had stood by the window, silent and abstracted, as though the conversation in no way concerned him, turned round at once, and went up to the bed. At first sight, Witold's anxiety might have appeared exaggerated. Such a nature as Waldemar's does not succumb so easily to moral influences. He only looked somewhat paler than of yore; but any one who observed him closely would have discerned the change.
There was a strange, new expression in his face, well calculated to excite uneasiness--a peculiar rigidity of feature, as though all emotion had died out within him. This, however, might only be the vizier behind which some deeply wounded feeling hid itself from the outer world. His voice, too, had lost its full strong ring; it sounded weary and spiritless as he replied--
"Don't listen to my uncle. There is nothing the matter with me."
Dr. Fabian took his pupil's hand between his own, the young man submitting unresistingly.
"I have not ventured to touch on the subject yet," went on the Doctor, timidly. "I see it still gives you pain. Shall I be silent?"
Waldemar drew a deep, long breath.
"No," said he, after a minute. "I ought to thank you for withholding the truth from my uncle. He would have tortured me with questions which I should not have answered; but my madness on that evening nearly cost you your life. I cannot--I do not wish to deny to you what you, indeed, must know already."
"I know nothing," replied the Doctor, with a troubled look. "I can only form a guess from the scene I witnessed. Waldemar, tell me, for Heaven's sake, what had taken place?"
"Oh, it was nothing--a mere childish joke," said Waldemar, bitterly. "A piece of folly, which was not worthy to be taken seriously--so my mother wrote the day before yesterday. Unfortunately, I have taken it seriously--so seriously that it has wrecked part of my life for me, perhaps the best part."
"You love Countess Morynska?" asked the Doctor, in a low tone.