Not more than twenty minutes had passed when he heard again the soft thunder of Niger’s hoofs upon the sward; and in a minute more up came Lisbeth, carrying a little morocco case, which she left at the door of the room.

Then an hour passed, during which he heard nothing.  He sat motionless, and his troubled lungs grew quiet.

Suddenly he heard Dorothy’s step behind him, and rose.

“You had better come down stairs with me,” she said, in a voice he scarcely knew, and her face looked almost as if she had herself passed through a terrible illness.

“How is the poor lady?” he asked.

“The immediate danger is over, the doctor says, but he seems in great doubt.  He has sent me away.  Come with me:  I want you to have a glass of wine.”

“Has he recognized her?”

“I do not know.  I haven’t seen any sign of it yet.  But the room is dark.—­We can talk better below.”

“I am in want of nothing, my dear lady,” said Polwarth.  “I should much prefer staying here—­if you will permit me.  There is no knowing when I might be of service.  I am far from unused to sick chambers.”

“Do as you please, Mr. Polwarth,” said Dorothy, and going down the stair, went into the garden.

Once more Polwarth resumed his seat.

There came the noise of a heavy fall, which shook him where he sat.  He started up, went to the door of the chamber, listened a moment, heard a hurried step and the sweeping of garments, and making no more scruple, opened it and looked in.

All was silent, and the room was so dark he could see nothing.  Presently, however, he descried, in the middle of the floor, a prostrate figure that could only be the doctor, for plainly it was the nurse on her knees by him.  He glanced toward the bed.  There all was still.

“She is gone!” he thought with himself; “and the poor fellow has discovered who she was!”

He went in.

“Have you no brandy?” he said to the nurse.

“On that table,” she answered.

“Lay his head down, and fetch it.”

Notwithstanding his appearance, the nurse obeyed:  she knew the doctor required brandy, but had lost her presence of mind.

Polwarth took his hand.  The pulse had vanished—­and no wonder!  Once more, utterly careless of himself, had the healer drained his own life-spring to supply that of his patient—­knowing as little now what that patient was to him as he knew then what she was going to be.  A thrill had indeed shot to his heart at the touch of her hand, scarcely alive as it was, when first he felt her pulse; what he saw of her averted face through the folded shadows of pillows and curtains both of window and bed, woke wild suggestions; as he bared her arm, he almost gave a cry:  it was fortunate that there was not light enough to show the scar of his own lancet; but, always at any critical moment self-possessed to coldness, he schooled himself now with sternest severity.