“No—no,” he said mournfully. “I shall want no more clothes.”
“Harry!” she cried, taking his face between her hands, and drawing it round so that the light fell upon it; “are you ill?”
“Ill? yes,” he said feebly. “I’ve felt it before—in the wet cave—fever, I suppose. Lou, dear, is it very hard to die?”
“Oh, what shall I do?” cried the agitated girl, half frantic now. “Harry, you are not very ill?”
“Only sometimes,” he said slowly, as he looked round. “I seem to lose my head a bit, and then something seems to hold me back.”
“Harry!”
“Yes,” he cried, starting up; “who called? You, Louy, money—give me some money.”
“I gave you all I had, dear, and my jewels.”
“Yes, I forgot,” he said huskily, as in a moment his whole manner had changed, and with feverish energy he felt for the trinkets she had given him.
“You are ill, dear,” she whispered tenderly. “Would it not be better to let me fetch our father?”