The count hastened through Lisette's room to Henry's bedside.
The poor fellow was lying among the pillows; his mouth and one eye were
painfully distorted.
"Henry!" ejaculated the count, in a tone of alarm; "my poor Henry, you
are very ill."
"Ye-es--your--lord-ship," he answered slowly, and with difficulty;
"but--but--I shall soon--soon be--all right--again."
Ludwig lifted the sick man's hand from the coverlet, and felt the pulse.
"Yes, you are very ill indeed, Henry--so ill that I would not attempt to
treat you. We must have a doctor."
"He--he won't come--here; he is--afraid. Besides, there is nothing--the
matter with--any part of me but--but my--tongue. I can--can
hardly--move--it."
"You must not die, Henry--you dare not!" in an agony of terror exclaimed
Ludwig. "What would become of me--of Marie?"
"That--that is what--troubles--troubles me--most, Herr Count. Who
will--take my--place? Perhaps--that old soldier--with the machine leg--"
"No! no! no! Oh, Henry, no one could take your place. You are to me what
his arms are to a soldier. You are the guardian of all my thoughts--my
only friend and comrade in this solitude.
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