Suddenly the sunken eyelids flew open, and the eyes met Mount Dunstan’s in imploring anxiousness.

“Here I am, Patton,” Mount Dunstan said.  “You need not speak.”

But he must speak.  Here was the strength his sinking soul had longed for.

“Cruel bad—­goin’ fast—­m’ lord,” he panted.

Mount Dunstan made a sign to the nurse, who gave him a chair.  He sat down close to the bed, and took the bloodless hand in his own.

“No,” he said, “you are not going.  You’ll stay here.  I will see to that.”

The poor fellow smiled wanly.  Vague yearnings had led him sometimes, in the past, to wander into chapels or stop and listen to street preachers, and orthodox platitudes came back to him.

“God’s—­will,” he trailed out.

“It’s nothing of the sort.  It’s God’s will that you pull yourself together.  A man with a wife and three children has no right to slip out.”

A yearning look flickered in the lad’s eyes—­he was scarcely more than a lad, having married at seventeen, and had a child each year.

“She’s—­a good—­girl.”

“Keep that in your mind while you fight this out,” said Mount Dunstan.  “Say it over to yourself each time you feel yourself letting go.  Hold on to it.  I am going to fight it out with you.  I shall sit here and take care of you all day—­all night, if necessary.  The doctor and the nurse will tell me what to do.  Your hand is warmer already.  Shut your eyes.”

He did not leave the bedside until the middle of the night.

By that time the worst was over.  He had acted throughout the hours under the direction of nurse and doctor.  No one but himself had touched the patient.  When Patton’s eyes were open, they rested on him with a weird growing belief.  He begged his lordship to hold his hand, and was uneasy when he laid it down.

“Keeps—­me—­up,” he whispered.

“He pours something into them—­vigour—­magnetic power—­life.  He’s like a charged battery,” Dr. Thwaite said to his co-workers.  “He sat down by Patton just in time.  It sets one to thinking.”

Having saved Patton, he must save others.  When a man or woman sank, or had increased fever, they believed that he alone could give them help.  In delirium patients cried out for him.  He found himself doing hard work, but he did not flinch from it.  The adoration for him became a sort of passion.  Haggard faces lighted up into life at the sound of his footstep, and heavy heads turned longingly on their pillows as he passed by.  In the winter days to come there would be many an hour’s talk in East End courts and alleys of the queer time when a score or more of them had lain in the great room with the dancing and floating goddesses looking down at them from the high, painted ceiling, and the swell, who was a lord, walking about among them, working for them as the nurses did, and sitting by some of them through awful hours, sometimes holding burning or slackening and chilling hands with a grip whose steadiness seemed to hold them back from the brink of the abyss they were slipping into.  The mere ignorantly childish desire to do his prowess credit and to play him fair saved more than one man and woman from going out with the tide.