Dr. Noel, in a tall night-cap, carrying a lamp which lighted
up his long white countenance, sidling in his gait, and peering and
cocking his head like some sort of bird, pushed the door slowly
open, and advanced into the middle of the room.
"I thought I heard a cry," began the Doctor, "and fearing you might
be unwell I did not hesitate to offer this intrusion."
Silas, with a flushed face and a fearful beating heart, kept
between the Doctor and the bed; but he found no voice to answer.
"You are in the dark," pursued the Doctor; "and yet you have not
even begun to prepare for rest. You will not easily persuade me
against my own eyesight; and your face declares most eloquently
that you require either a friend or a physician - which is it to
be? Let me feel your pulse, for that is often a just reporter of
the heart."
He advanced to Silas, who still retreated before him backwards, and
sought to take him by the wrist; but the strain on the young
American's nerves had become too great for endurance. He avoided
the Doctor with a febrile movement, and, throwing himself upon the
floor, burst into a flood of weeping.
As soon as Dr. Noel perceived the dead man in the bed his face
darkened; and hurrying back to the door which he had left ajar, he
hastily closed and double-locked it.
"Up!" he cried, addressing Silas in strident tones; "this is no
time for weeping.
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