He led the way around the house to the tool shed. Here he lit a lantern, thrust forward one nail keg, and sat down on another.
Heinzman sat down on the nail keg, almost immediately arose, walked up and down two or three times, and resumed his seat.
Orde looked at him curiously. He was half dressed, without a collar, his thin hair unkempt. The usual bright colour of his cheeks had become livid, and the flesh, ordinarily firm and elastic, had fallen in folds and wrinkles. His eyes burned bright as though from some internal fire. A great restlessness possessed him. Impulsively Orde leaned forward to touch his hand. It was dry and hot.
“What is it, Heinzman?” he asked quietly, fully prepared for the vagaries of a half delirium.
“Ach, Orde!” cried the German, “I am tortured mit HOLLENQUALLE—what you call?—hell's fire. You, whose wife comes in and saves my Mina when the others runs away. You, my best friends! It is SCHRECKLICH! She vas the noblest, the best, the most kindest—”
“If you mean Mrs. Orde's staying with Mina,” broke in Orde, “it was only what any one should have done, in humanity; and I, for one, am only too glad she had the chance. You mustn't exaggerate. And now you'd better get home where you can be taken care of. You're sick.”
“No, no, my friend,” said Heinzman, vigourously shaking his head. “She might take the disease. She might die. It vas noble.” He shuddered. “My Mina left to die all alone!”
Orde rose to his feet with decision.
“That is all right,” said he. “Carroll was glad of the chance. Now let me get you home.”
But Heinzman's excitement had suddenly died.