"Oh, Louis—my poor little boy!" she cried, forgetting that he was drunk in her fear that he was ill.
"You think I'm drunk, ole girl—not drunk 'tall, ole girl."
"Well, get undressed and get into bed," she said, trying to help. He struck her hand away from his collar fiercely and, holding her arms twisted them until she had to beg him to let her go.
"Aft' my papers," he cried fiercely. Then he seemed to recognize her and began to rave about his duty to England, and how England's enemies had given him poison.
"I'm poisoned, ole girl. I knew what it would be. But when they sent for me I had to go."
"Who sent for you?"
"They sent a note by King. It came in by the English mail. Th-th-they have t-t-to b-be s-so c-c-careful," he said, and that was all he would tell her. Soon he was fast asleep, breathing heavily, and she was wrestling with a sick disgust at his presence, a fright that he really had been in danger from enemies and the conviction that he was drunk and not poisoned. She lay on the floor again this time because she could not bring herself to touch him or go near him. His hands and face were dirty and he had definitely refused to wash them or let her wash them. But in the middle of the night he woke up and began to shout for her.
"I wan' my wife. Where's my wife?" he raved and groping till he found the candlestick knocked on the floor with it. She sprung up hastily.
"Louis—hush, dear. You're waking up all the poor boys who have to go to work at six o'clock," she whispered.
"I wan' my wife," he cried, groping for her with his muddy hands. She stood trembling by the bed.