"Very good," he answered; then suddenly changing his ideas, he muttered—"She will come, she promised it me. But no, she will not come; she is dead to me henceforth—dead! dead!" he repeated, in a hollow voice, with different intonations; then he uttered a piercing cry—"Oh, heaven! How I suffer!" he exclaimed, bursting into sobs, while a torrent of tears inundated his face.
He buried his head in his hands, and fell back on his bed.
The two sailors anxiously examined the surgeon's impassive face, trying to read in his features what they had to hope or fear.
The latter uttered a deep sigh of relief, passed his hand over his damp forehead, and turning to Michael, said—
"Heaven be praised! He sheds tears—he is saved."
"Heaven be praised!" the sailors repeated, crossing themselves devoutly.
"Do you think he is mad, Major?" Michael asked, in a trembling voice.
"No, it is not madness, but delirium; he will soon fall asleep—do not leave him; when he awakes he will remember nothing. If he ask for drink give him the potion I have prepared, and which is on that table."
"Yes, Major."
"Now I am going to retire; if any unforeseen accident occur, warn me at once; but, in any case, I shall look in again tonight."