Let each one try to realise the thoughts which followed each other in hot haste through his brain, the confused phantasmagoria which swam before him, fading away at last, and leaving only two distinct pictures—the jackdaw hopping about in his cage, and little lame Tom in the village, sitting in his cripple's chair.
He shrinks back in horror, his soul rises in loathing: he pants, and wildly throws himself about, with a half-smothered cry.
"Oh, gently, my darling! you will hurt yourself."
It is his father's voice, and he turns to him and clings tightly.
"I don't care—I don't care. I want to hurt myself. I want to die. I don't want to live like that!" At the sight of the physicians, his excitement redoubled, and he clung more tightly to his father. "No! No! Send them away! They shan't look at me, they shan't touch me. They are going to try and make me well, and I don't want to get well. I won't get well!"
The doctors retired, as their presence excited him so much, and Sir Everard tried to loosen the boy's convulsive grasp round his neck.
Humphrey was too exhausted to retain the position long: his hands relaxed their hold, and Sir Everard laid him back on the pillow.
Once more the soft face in the picture exercises its old influence over him, and charms away, as of old, the fit of passionate rebellion.
"Father," he entreated, in a whisper, "let me die! Promise not to let them try and make me well again."