Waldemar looked at the speaker with wide, astonished eyes. "So it was not mere imprudence, not by any unlucky accident that you were thrown to the ground. You knew to what you were exposing yourself. Do you care at all about my life, then? I thought nobody cared for it."
"Nobody? and your guardian?"
"Uncle Witold? Yes, he perhaps; but no one else."
"I think I have shown you that somebody else cares," said the Doctor, with gentle reproach.
The young man bent over him.
"I know that I have deserved it least of all from you; but, believe me, Doctor, I have had a hard lesson, so hard a one that I shall never forget it as long as I live. From the hour I carried you home bleeding, from the two first days when the surgeon gave you up for lost, I have been learning what a murderer must feel. If you really are willing to stay on with me, you may risk it now. Here, by your bed of pain, I have for ever forsworn those violent fits of passion which blind me to everything that comes in my way. You shall not have to complain of me any more."
The words were spoken with a touch of the old energy; but Dr. Fabian still gazed anxiously into his pupil's countenance, as the latter bent over him. "I wish you could tell me that with a different face," he replied. "Of course I shall stay with you; but I would rather have your old impetuosity than this dull unnatural calm. There is a look in your eye which does not please me."
Waldemar raised himself quickly, withdrawing from the too keen observation. "Don't let us be for ever talking of me," he said. "The doctor says you may have some fresh air now. Shall I open the window?"
The sick man sighed. He saw there was nothing to be done here; moreover, the conversation was now interrupted by the entrance of Herr Witold.
"Here I am again," said he, coming in. "Waldemar, you will have to go down. Young Prince Baratowski is there."