"I'll stay here to-night, anyhow, Watkins," said I. "I'm not going to be driven out of my own island by anybody!"
And I brought my fist down with a crash on the table. And then, to our amazement, we heard—from somewhere in the dark recesses of the hall, where the faint light of Hogvardt's lantern did not reach—a low, but distinct, groan, as of some one in pain. Watkins shuddered; Hogvardt looked rather uncomfortable; Denny and I listened eagerly. Again the groan came. I seized the lantern from Hogvardt's hand, and rushed in the direction of the sound. There, in the corner of the hall, on a couch, covered with a rug, lay an old man in an uneasy attitude, groaning now and then, and turning restlessly. And by his side sat an old serving-woman in weary, heavy slumber. In a moment I guessed the truth—part of the truth.
"He's not dead of that fever yet," said I.
CHAPTER III.
THE FEVER OF NEOPALIA.
I looked for a moment on the old man's pale, clean-cut, aristocratic face; then I shook his attendant vigorously by the arm. She awoke with a start.
"What does this mean?" I demanded. "Who is he?"
"Heaven help us, who are you?" she cried, leaping up in alarm. Indeed, we four, with our eager, fierce faces, may have looked disquieting enough.
"I am Lord Wheatley; these are my friends," I answered in brisk, sharp tones.
"What, it is you, then—?" A wondering gaze ended her question.