The cry had reached the children below stairs. A moment later and Rob, wide-eyed and excited, appeared at the sick-room door. He was confronted by his old foe the post surgeon.
"Can't come in here," said the surgeon briefly. "It—"
"Oh, but tell her I'm not drowned! Let me tell her—"
The surgeon took him by the shoulders and marched him down stairs.
"Is this the way you promise to keep still?"
The post surgeon was skilled in other arts than his own profession. He had appealed to the boy's honor.
Trevelyan's son flung himself face downward on the hearth rug and lay motionless. Johnny went to him and knelt beside him and touched him on the arm. Something of Johnny's childhood had vanished in the night, never to return. He did not say anything to Rob; he just continued to kneel beside him with his hand on his arm.
Presently Rob sat up. His wakeful night had not improved his appearance. His shirt was a crumpled mass; his hair was disheveled, and one of his ill-laced boots was gone.
"She shan't die!" he cried, passionately, "I won't let her die! I won't! I won't!"
Johnny said nothing. Once, long ago, a little brother had died, and Johnny still remembered how vainly he had tried to wake him. Johnny had seen death.