All at once it then occurred to Gamaliel that the clock had stopped. Whatever had come upon him? Of course it was Friday evening, and for the first time in forty years the hour for winding it up had gone by unheeded. Almost savagely, so moved by a contemptuous anger was the landlord against himself, he took the key in his feverish hands, and strove to wind it up and set it again in motion. His attempts were pitiful. The key refused to obey his faltering hand, and wandered all over the face of the clock. The palsy of terror was already communicated to his limbs.
The clock was wound at last. He set the pendulum again in motion, and it recommenced sonorously to tick. Even then, however, the landlord was no nearer the end of his suspense. He did not know how long the clock had stopped, and in all the house it was the only thing he had to tell the time by. Could anything have been more distracting or inopportune than his forgetfulness?
By hook or by crook he must obtain the time. To be ignorant of it at that hour was more than flesh and blood could endure. He would go upstairs and ask the King.
In the greatest trepidation of body and spirit, he climbed the stairs. When he got to the top he stood irresolutely, with his knuckles poised against the chamber door. He felt that, even supposing the power was vouchsafed him to knock upon the panels, he would still be unable to address the King. His mouth was like a lime pit; his tongue stuck in it, no longer susceptible of control.
He was physically incapable of addressing the King. He would try to ask Lady Farnham. He knocked fiercely upon the door, for to do so with the deliberation of cold blood was impossible. He was bidden to enter.
The landlord did not know how he got into the chamber. He was certainly not conscious that it was by the agency of his feet. But suddenly he found himself staring wide-mouthed at his guests, with never a word to give them. They plainly expected one, yet his tongue stuck in his mouth; he was unable to utter a syllable.
“Hath our Boniface seen a ghost?” said the King’s voice. “I declare he hath the pallor and inanimation of death without the peace of it. Speak, good fellow. What ails thee?”
The landlord quivered from head to foot, but speak he could not. The King’s voice was the last straw. He tottered back against the wall.
“Oh, what doth ail the poor man?” said the compassionate lady. “Look how his eyes stare, and see how the sweat pours from him! And he can scarce stand upon his legs. I am sure it is some grievous malady. Can it be poison, thinkest thou?”
“Speak, good landlord,” said the King. “What doth ail thee?”