“I'll be hanged,” cried Redwood, “if I think it's decent for you to step in here, and knock all our plans into a cocked hat, like that. And, any how, didn't you hear the doctor say that a carriage drive would hurt him?”
“And yet,” volunteered the doctor, “if the gentleman insists, Mr. Redwood, it will be wiser to let him have his own way. A dispute, you know, under the circumstances, is hardly desirable.”
“I do insist. I feel in duty bound to,” said the rabbi.
“Well, you've got a mighty queer sense of duty, then,” retorted Redwood; “and you can bet your life that when Elias comes to, he'll be as mad as jingo. But if you choose to take the responsibility on your own shoulders, go ahead.”
When Christine saw that they were about to bear Elias from the room, she demanded eagerly, almost fiercely, whither? And upon being informed that the rabbi meant to carry him home, she passionately besought the old man not to do it; imploring him to let her sweetheart remain where he was, at least till he should have regained his senses; and pleading that until then she could not help fearing the worst.
“Oh, sir—please—please don't take him away from me. How shall I rest, until he has come to, and spoken to me? Oh, I can't—I can't bear to have you take him away, like that. If you would-only leave him till he can speak to me! What shall I do, all night long, not knowing whether he is sick—or dead—or what, and—and always seeing him before me, that way? Oh, there, there! They are taking him away. Oh, Elias! Oh, sir! Oh, God, God! Oh, what shall I do?”
She might as well have addressed her entreaties to a stone. Neither by gesture, nor by word of mouth, nor by variation of feature, did the rabbi signify that he had even heard her voice, or was even aware of her existence. The carriage drove away, leaving Christine in a paroxysm of frantic grief.
“Well,” remarked old Redwood to Dr. Whipple, “I've heard tell of bowels of mercy; but actually, that old Hebrew there, he must have bowels of brass.”