She lay in a kind of stupor, and Thyrsis, exhausted, began to doze. He knew not how long a time had passed—it had been an hour, perhaps two, when suddenly he opened his eyes and sat up with a bound galvanized into life by a cry from Corydon. She had started forward, grasping around her wildly, uttering a series of rising screams. He clutched her hand, and stared around the room in fright.
They were alone. He leaped up; but the nurse ran into the room at the same instant. She gazed at the girl, whose face had flushed suddenly purple; she came to her, and took her hand.
“You feel some pain?” she asked.
Corydon could not speak, but she nodded; a moment later she sunk back with a gasp.
“A kind of bearing-down pain?” said the nurse. “Different from the other?”
Corydon gasped her assent again.
“That is the birth,” the nurse said. “The doctor will be here in a moment.”
Again the horrible spasm seized the girl, and brought her to a sitting posture; again her hand clutched Thyrsis’ with a grip like death, and again the veins on her forehead leaped out. Like the surging of an ocean billow, it seemed to sweep over her; and then suddenly she screamed, and sank back upon the pillow.
Thyrsis was wild with alarm; but the doctor entered, placid as ever. “So they’ve come?” he said.
Nothing seemed to disturb him. He was like a being out of another region. He took off his coat and bared his arms; he put on a long white apron, and washed his hands elaborately again, and then once more examined his patient. His face was opposite to Thyrsis, and the latter watched his expression, breathless with dread. But the doctor only said, “Ah, yes.”