The surgeon bowed and proceeded to examine the patient.
“She is very low,” he said, “and will never get well here. The air is pestiferous. Healthy lungs can scarcely stand it.”
“Can she be removed with safety?”
“God bless the angel,” said Maud. “Will you come again—murder—who said murder? There—there—the flames are crawling, and like long forked tongues of snakes from the Old Smithy, because they will not burn the murdered dead. No, no, no—where are you, Andrew Britton? Ha! You are here while the murder is doing—yes, yes—and yet you will die before mad Maud.”
“She raves!” said the surgeon.
“Yes, poor-creature, her senses are sadly bewildered—she has known much sorrow.”
“Ah, poor thing. These mental maladies are beyond the physician’s skill. I will, however give her, if you please, sir, a composing draught, which will most probably throw her into a slumber of some hours’ duration, and allay much of the irritability that now evidently affects her.”
“I shall thank you to do so. She shall be removed to my own house.”
“You will not be troubled with her long, sir.”
“I fear she is far gone on her last journey,” said the magistrate.