CHAPTER XVI
"I have had a dream past the wit of man to say what dream it was."—Midsummer Night's Dream.
"Mr. Locke! Mr. Locke!"
I opened heavy eyes to meet the eyes of Ethan Vere, who bent over me. Phillida was there, too, pale of face. But what was That just vanishing into the darkness beyond my window-sill? What malignant glare seared disappointment and grim promise across my consciousness? Had I brought with me or did I hear now a whispered: "Pygmy, again!"
"Cousin, Cousin, are you very ill?" Phillida was half sobbing. "Won't you drink the brandy, please? Oh, Ethan, how cold he is to touch!"
"Hush, dear," Vere bade, in his slow steadfast way. "Mr. Locke, can you swallow some of this?"
I became aware that his arm supported me upright in my chair while he held a glass to my lips. Mechanically I drank some of the cordial. Vere put down the glass and said a curious thing. He asked me:
"Shall I get you out of this room?"