He insisted to himself that he was in mortal danger of being fooled by his imagination—­that a certain indelible imprint on his brain had begun to phosphoresce.  If he did not banish the fancies crowding to overwhelm him, his patient’s life, and probably his own reason as well, would be the penalty.  Therefore, with will obstinately strained, he kept his eyes turned from the face of the woman, drawn to it as they were even by the terror of what his fancy might there show him, and held to his duty in spite of growing agony.  His brain, he said to himself, was so fearfully excited, that he must not trust his senses:  they would reflect from within, instead of transmitting from without.  And victoriously did he rule, until, all the life he had in gift being exhausted, his brain, deserted by his heart, gave way, and when he turned from the bed, all but unconscious, he could only stagger a pace or two, and fell like one dead.

Polwarth got some brandy into his mouth with a teaspoon.  In about a minute, his heart began to beat.

“I must open another vein,” he murmured as if in a dream.

When he had swallowed a third teaspoonful, he lifted his eyelids in a dreary kind of way, saw Polwarth, and remembered that he had something to attend to—­a patient at the moment on his hands, probably—­he could not tell.

“Tut! give me a wine-glass of the stuff,” he said.

Polwarth obeyed.  The moment he swallowed it, he rose, rubbing his forehead as if trying to remember, and mechanically turned toward the bed.  The nurse, afraid he might not yet know what he was about, stepped between, saying softly,

“She is asleep, sir, and breathing quietly.”

“Thank God!” he whispered with a sigh, and turning to a couch, laid himself gently upon it.

The nurse looked at Polwarth, as much as to say:  “Who is to take the command now?”

“I shall be outside, nurse:  call me if I can be useful to you,” he replied to the glance, and withdrew to his watch on the top of the stair.

After about a quarter of an hour, the nurse came out.

“Do you want me?” said Polwarth, rising hastily.

“No, sir,” she answered.  “The doctor says all immediate danger is over, and he requires nobody with him.  I am going to look after my baby.  And please, sir, nobody is to go in, for he says she must not be disturbed.  The slightest noise might spoil every thing:  she must sleep now all she can.”

“Very well,” said Polwarth, and sat down again.

The day went on; the sun went down; the shadows deepened; and not a sound came from the room.  Again and again Dorothy came and peeped up the stair, but seeing the little man at his post, like Zacchaeus up the sycamore, was satisfied, and withdrew.  But at length Polwarth bethought him that Ruth would be anxious, and rose reluctantly.  The same instant the door opened, and Faber appeared.  He looked very pale and worn, almost haggard.