Christian rose also. He appeared to hesitate, and then to grasp the table with both hands to assist himself. He stood for a moment, and suddenly tottered forward. Had not the Provincial caught him he would have fallen.
“My head turns,” he mumbled incoherently.
“What is the matter? ... what is the matter?”
The Jesuit slipped his arm round him—a slight arm, but as hard and strong as steel.
“You are tired,” he said sympathetically, “perhaps you have a little touch of fever. Come, I will assist you to your room.”
And the two men passed out together.
CHAPTER XXIII. STRICKEN DOWN
In later days Christian Vellacott could bring back to his memory no distinct recollection of that first night spent in the monastery. There was an indefinite remembrance of the steady, monotonous clang of a bell in the first hours, doubtless the tolling of the matins, calling the elect to prayer at midnight.