“Are you going to be ill, do you think, dear?”
“I don’t know. Don’t you think Roger is ill?”
“Yes; and I dare say we shall all have the fever, from the damps and bad smells of this place.”
“Well—never mind about me, Oliver. I am only very, very tired yet.”
“Come home, and lie down, and I will sit beside you,” said Oliver. “You will be patient, I know, dear. I will try if I can be patient, if I should see you very ill.”
He led her home, and laid her down, and scarcely left her for many hours. It was plain now that the fever had seized upon them; and where it would stop, who could tell? During the night he and Ailwin watched by turns beside their sick companions. This would not have been necessary for Mildred; but Roger was sometimes a little delirious; and they were afraid of his frightening Mildred by his startings and strange sayings.
When Ailwin came, at dawn, to take Oliver’s place, she patted him on the shoulder, and bade him go to sleep, and be in no hurry to rouse himself again; for he would not be wanted for anything if he should sleep till noon.
Oliver was tired enough; but there was one thing which he had a great mind to do before he slept. He wished to look out once again from the staircase, when the sun should have risen, to see whether there was no moving speck on the wide waters—no promise of help in what now threatened to be his extremity. Ailwin thought him perverse; but did not oppose his going when he said he was sure he should sleep better after it. She soon, therefore, saw his figure among the ruins of the roof, standing up between her and the brightening sky.