"Water—bring me water," said Paul Ritson, feebly; "I'm parched."
"How hot his forehead is," said Mercy.
"And no light 'un to lift, neither," said the driver. "Does he live here, missis?"
Mrs. Drayton brought a glass of water. Paul drained it to the last drop.
"No, sir; I mean yes, driver," said the landlady, confusedly.
"He warn't so bad getting in," the driver observed.
"Oh, dear, oh, dear! where is Mr. Christian—Parson Christian?" said Mercy, whose distracted eyes wandered around.
"The gentleman's come, sir; he's upstairs, sir," said the landlady, and, muttering to herself, Mrs. Drayton hobbled away.
Paul Ritson's head had fallen on his breast. His hat was off, and his hair tumbled over his face. The strong man sat coiled up on the bench. Then he shook himself and threw up his head, as if trying to cast off the weight of stupor that sat on him.
"Well, well! who'd have thought of this? Water—more water!" he mumbled in a thick voice.