Trembling in every limb, wildly excited, and with his despair written in every lineament of his face, Mark Heath dropped from his chair, and crept upon his knees before the doctor, holding up his clasped hands, and evidently so completely exhausted that he might have been mastered by a child.
“Yes, yes; of course, of course I will,” said the doctor kindly. “There, come and lie down here on this couch.”
“Lie down?” said the young man, with a suspicious look.
“To be sure; it will rest you. You are quite safe here.”
“Safe? Am I safe?”
“Of course,” said the doctor, spreading the fallen ulster over the young man’s shivering form, as he slowly lay down.
“Stop! where are you going?”
“Only into the next room—the surgery,” said the doctor, turning to face his visitor’s fierce eyes as he started up from the couch.
“What for? Is it to admit those devils.”
Mark Heath, in a fit of impotent rage, made a dash to reach the fireplace, but his feet were hampered by the ulster, and he would have fallen heavily had not the doctor caught him in his arms.