"What can be the matter," he thought, "can old Anthony be sick?"
This was the name, correct or not, by which the hermit was known in the village.
He paused a moment in indecision, but on hearing the groan repeated, he overcame his scruples, and pushing open the door, which stood ajar, he entered.
On a pallet, at one corner of the main room, lay the old man, with his limbs drawn up, as if in pain. His back was towards the door.
"Who is there?" he asked, as he heard the door open.
"A friend," answered Mark. "Are you sick?"
"I have a severe attack of rheumatism," answered the old man.
"And you have no one to take care of you?" said Mark, pityingly.
"No; I have no friends," answered the old man, in a tone half sad, half bitter. "Come round to the foot of the bed; let me look at you," he added, after a pause.
Mark complied with his request.