For three weeks he raved in the wildest delirium of fever, unconscious alike of his own condition, the care he was receiving, or the trouble and weariness he caused, and it was three weeks longer before the skilful physician pronounced him out of danger, or would give any hope that the wounded limb could be saved.
“Save it if you can, doctor; the poor fellow has had a rough time of it, and I should dislike to send him away from here a cripple,” Earle had pleaded, when the doctor spoke of amputation.
“He will be a cripple any way; so much of the bone is diseased and will have to come out, that the leg will always be weak, and he will be lame, even if we save it. But for your sake I will do my best, though it is more than the wretch deserves,” grumbled the physician.
He had not much faith or patience in nursing the “miserable wretch,” as he called him.
“Like enough he will turn round and cut your throat, some fine day, when he gets well. Such people have no feeling, no gratitude; they are like the brutes and have no souls, and should be treated accordingly.”
“‘Inasmuch as you have done it unto one of the least of these,’” Earle gravely repeated once, after one of the doctor’s outbursts.
“Humph! such high-toned philanthropy will doubtless be rewarded in a way you don’t expect.”
But with all his apparent gruffness and contempt for the kindness Earle was bestowing upon the unfortunate criminal, the young marquis could see that he was always very gentle with him, and was satisfied that he was bestowing the very best treatment that his knowledge and skill could suggest.
When at last the fever left him he lay weak as a baby, and only able to be lifted gently in the arms of strong men when he wished to change his position.
He did not look nearly so repulsive to Earle as he lay there so pale, and thin, and helpless, and a great pity crept into his heart for this brother-man whose life had been so steeped in sin and infamy.