“The rigor mortis, and yet not dead? Catalepsy, by heaven!” he cried. “She’s just rousing from it. There’s life in her. But—but, it may ebb. Brandy, hot water, chafing—without delay.”
“Will it do hurt to carry her thus?” asked Wilfrid, tenderly lifting the still form.
“Not at all.”
“Then in heaven’s name run on first to the castle, and rouse the women-folk.”
Beauvais required no second bidding; he set off with fleet feet, while Wilfrid, bearing the Princess in his arms, followed as fast as he was able.
At the castle-entrance he was met by a wondering-eyed maid, who, apprised of his coming, asked no questions but at once led the way to a bed-chamber that was being rapidly prepared for the reception of the patient. Two other maids were there under the doctor’s directions, getting ready the necessary restoratives.
“Now, girls, to work!” said he cheerfully. “It’s a struggle betwixt life and death, and we’re not going to let death be the winner.”
Leaving the still comatose Princess to their ministrations Wilfrid withdrew to the corridor, and there met Vera, Pauline’s chief maid, and, it may be added, confidante.
“My lady is in a sleep so sweet that it would be a pity to awake her,” she observed. “Still, if you think—”
“Let her sleep on. Why should we disturb her? She can do no more good than is being done. Besides——”