Something of the old fierceness flashed into the man's eye, but died out.
"No matter," he said under his breath, shaking his head, and putting his hand in a feeble way to his mouth.
"Inanition of soul as well as body," thought the Doctor. "I'll rouse him, cruel or not."
"Have you anything to which to turn, if this disappoints you? Home or friends?"
He waited for an answer. When it came, he felt like an intruder, the man was so quiet, far-off.
"I have nothing,—no friends,—unless I count that boy in the next room. Eh? He has fragments of the old knightly spirit, if his brain be cracked. No others."
"Well, well! You'll forgive me?" said the Doctor. "I did not mean to be coarse. Only I—The matter will succeed, I know. You will find happiness in that. Money and fame will come after."
The old man looked up and came towards him with a certain impressive dignity, though the snuff-colored clothes were bagging about his limbs, and his eyes were heavy and unsteady.
"You're not coarse. No. I'm glad you spoke to me in that way. It is as if you stopped my life short, and made me look before and behind. But you don't understand. I"—
He put his hand to his head, then began buttoning his coat uncertainly, with a deprecating, weak smile.