Roy with some difficulty held him down, and after awhile he seemed to come to himself. “Was I talking nonsense?” he said. “It’s a horrid feeling not being able to control one’s self. If I go crazy you can just let me die, please. Life’s bad enough now, and would be intolerable then. There she is again! She’s smiling at me. Oh, Blanche—you did care once. Come back! Come back! He can’t love you as I love! But it’s no use—no use! she is worse than dead. I tell you I saw it in that cursed paper, and I saw it in her own face. Why, one might have known! All women are like it. What do they dare so long as their vanity is satisfied? It’s just as Björnsen says: “‘If thou hadst not so smiled on me, Now I should not thus weep for thee.’” And then he fell into incoherent talk, chiefly in Norwegian, but every now and then repeating the English rendering of Björnsen’s lines. Meanwhile Roy turned over in his mind half a dozen schemes, and at length decided to leave Frithiof during one of the quiet intervals, while he went for their own doctor, Miss Charlotte mounting guard outside the door, and promising to go to him if he seemed to need care. Dr. Morris, who was an old friend, listened to Roy’s description, and returned with him at once, much to the relief of poor Miss Charlotte, who was frightened out of her senses by one of Frithiof’s paroxysms of wild excitement. “Do you think seriously of him?” said Roy, when, the excitement having died down, Frithiof lay in a sort of stupor, taking no notice at all of his surroundings. “If we can manage to get him any sleep he will pull through all right,” said Dr. Morris, in his abrupt way. “If not, he will sink before many days. You had better send for his mother, if he has one.” “He has only a sister, and she is in Norway.” “Well, send for her, for he will need careful nursing. You say you will take charge of him? Very well; and to-morrow morning I will send in a nurse, who will set you at liberty for a few hours. Evidently he has had some shock. Can you make out what it was at all?” “Well; last autumn, I believe—indeed, I am sure—he was jilted by an English girl with whom he was desperately in love. It all came upon the top of the other troubles of which I told you.” “And what is this paper he raves about? What is the girl’s name? We might get some clew in that way.” “Oh,” said Roy, “she was married some months ago. She is now Lady Romiaux.” The doctor gave a stifled exclamation. “That explains all. I suppose the poor fellow honestly cared for her, and was shocked to see the paragraph in this week’s _Idle Time_. Your friend has had a narrow escape, if he could but see it in that light. For the husband of that heartless little flirt must be the most miserable man alive. We shall soon have another of those detestable _causes célèbres_, and the newspapers lying about in every household will be filled with all the poisonous details.”