"Is he ill?"
"I believe he has had a stroke of apoplexy."
She said it with as little emotion as if she had spoken of an underdone pasty.
The count hastened through Lisette's room to Henry's bedside.
The poor fellow was lying among the pillows; his mouth and one eye were painfully distorted.
"Henry!" ejaculated the count, in a tone of alarm; "my poor Henry, you are very ill."
"Ye-es—your—lord-ship," he answered slowly, and with difficulty; "but—but—I shall soon—soon be—all right—again."
Ludwig lifted the sick man's hand from the coverlet, and felt the pulse.
"Yes, you are very ill indeed, Henry—so ill that I would not attempt to treat you. We must have a doctor."
"He—he won't come—here; he is—afraid. Besides, there is nothing—the matter with—any part of me but—but my—tongue. I can—can hardly—move—it."