"Oh, damnation—this is awful!" exclaimed my uncle, his handsome face looking strangely haggard. "Day and night in your delirium you have lain cursing Diana and with Diana's hand upon your brow and Diana's tears wetting your pillow—and now—O Peregrine, lad, tell me you don't mean it—that you are a little fevered, yes—yes, people at such times often turn against those they most love—will kill Diana else—"
"Or she me, sir—so keep her away—don't let her touch me—I'll not see her, I say—I'll not, by God—I'll not—"
"Hush—hush! Don't scream, lad, don't scream!"
He was on his knees, had clasped my trembling weakness in his great arms and was soothing me, and I weeping for my very impotence, when the door opened and Aunt Julia appeared.
"Dear Heaven!" she cried, bending above me. "What have you done,
George? What have you done to him?"
"O Aunt!" I cried. "Dear Aunt Julia, don't let her touch me again—don't let her come near me or I shall go mad—"
"No, no, my loved Perry, no one shall tend you but myself—there, dear boy, be comforted! O George, don't stand gaping—give me the draught yonder—quick!"
"Promise me, Aunt—swear she shall not approach me again!
"I swear it, dear Peregrine. Come, drink—"