"They are blooding him again," he said; and then—"What are you doing here?"
I took him by the lapel of his coat to make him attend to me; for his eyes were wandering back like a mule's, at every sound behind.
"See here," said I. "If His Majesty is ill, it is time to send for a priest. I tell you—"
"Priest!" snapped the page in a whisper. "What the devil—"
I shook him gently by his coat.
"Mr. Chiffinch; I will have the truth. Is the King dying?"
"No, he is not then!" he whispered angrily. "Hark—"
He tore himself free, darted back to the further door, and stood there, at the foot of the stairs, with his head lowered, listening. Even from where I was I could hear a gentle sort of sound as of moaning or very heavy breathing, and then a sharp whisper or two; and then the noise of something trickling into a basin. Presently all was quiet again; and the page lifted his head. I stood where I was; for I know how it is with men in a sudden anxiety: they will snap and snarl, and then all at once turn confidential. I was not disappointed.
After he had waited a moment or two he came towards me once more.
"Mr. Mallock," he whispered, "the King needs no priest. He is not so ill as that; and he is unconscious too at present."