He was gone again, while he was being called to wait; and, dressing as fast as possible, George Yolland went out after him into the dark, cold, frosty, foggy morning, and overtook him, leaning on the gate of a field, shivering, panting, and so dizzy, that it was with difficulty he was helped to the house.  He made known that he had felt very unwell all the day before, and had had a miserable night, in which all the warnings about infection had returned on him.  The desire to keep clear of all whom he might endanger, as well as a fevered—­perhaps already half-delirious—­longing for cool air, had sent him forth himself to summon George Yolland.  And already strong shivering fits and increased distress showed what fatal mischief that cold walk had done.  All he cared now to say was that he trusted to his doctor to keep everybody out of the house; that I was not to be called away from Dora, and that it was all his own fault.

One person could not be kept away, and that was Dermot Tracy.  He came over to spend the Sunday with his friend, and finding the door closed, and Richardson giving warning of smallpox, only made him the more eagerly run upstairs.  George could by that time ill dispense with a strong man’s help, and after vaccinating him, admitted him to the room, where the checking of the eruption had already produced terrible fever and violent raving.

It was a very remarkable delirium, as the three faithful watchers described it.  The mind and senses seemed astray, only not the will.  It was as if all the vices of his past life came in turn to assail him, and he was writhing and struggling under their attacks, yet not surrendering himself.  When—­the Sunday duties over—­Ben Yolland came in, he found him apparently acting over some of the wild scenes of his early youth, with shreds of the dreadful mirth, and evil words of profane revelry; and yet, as if they struck his ears, he would catch himself up and strike his fist on his mouth, and when Ben entered, he stretched out his arms and said, “Don’t let me.”  Prayer soothed him for a short interval, but just as they hoped that sleep might come, the fierce struggle with oppression brought back the old habits of violent language, and then the distressed endeavour to check himself, and the clutch at the clergyman’s aid.  Ben Yolland saw, standing in the room, a great rough wooden cross which Harold had made for some decorating plan of mine.  He held it over him, put it into his hand, and bade him repeat after him, “Christ has conquered.  By Thy Cross and Passion; by Thy precious Death and Burial, good Lord deliver us.”