"People will soon be congratulating me on my daughter's very splendid marriage. Congratulating me! Good Heaven, what a mockery! Congratulating me on the loss of my only child, to a foreigner, whom I half dislike and more than half suspect—though without being able to justify either feeling. What do you think, Ishmael? Is that a subject for congratulation. But, good Heaven, boy! what is the matter with you? Are you ill?" he suddenly exclaimed, pausing before the young man and noticing for the first time the awful pallor of his face and the deadly collapse of his form.
"Are you ill, my dear boy? Speak!"
"Yes, yes, I am ill!" groaned Ishmael.
"Where? where?"
"Everywhere!"
The judge rushed to the table and poured out a glass of brandy and brought it to him.
But the young man, who was habitually and totally abstinent, shook his head.
"Drink it! drink it!" said the judge, offering the glass.
But Ishmael silently waved it off.
"As a medicine, you foolish fellow—as a medicine! You are sinking, don't you know!" persisted the judge, forcing the glass into Ishmael's hand.