"What in the name of faith does all this mean?" asked Margaret, as she stepped into the room. "What is all this stir and commotion about?"
"I am dying, Margaret," repeated the confessor, as he gasped for very breath. "I thought to marry thee, my daughter, but now it is denied me. You will pray for the repose of the soul of Father Philip, will you not?" he inquired, looking up into her face as she bent over him.
"When you are dead, yes," she replied, "but not until."
"Don't talk to him, Mistress Margaret," said Manners; "he will only injure himself by talking in return. I have enjoined quietness, but he will take no heed. He ought to refresh himself by quietness, and sleep if possible, does he not; is not that correct, Everard?"
"Aye, it is indeed,"
"I shall be dead soon, Margaret, and—"
"Go to sleep, man, or at least lie still," growled à Woode. "What is the use of all my care and simples if you won't do as I order you?"
"And you will ask the baron to forgive an old man's follies, Margaret?" slowly pursued the father, between the gasps, quite heedless of the counsel given him to remain silent.
"I'll stop this," Sir Benedict broke in savagely, as he proceeded to tie the bandages on afresh. "Father Philip, you shall be silent, or die you must. That's better," he exclaimed, as his patient fell back unconscious. "He will, perforce, be quiet now awhile, and we may safely remove him to his room."
"Is he badly hurt, think you?" asked Margaret.