wrong with our friend, physically. Did you ever hear of a man having a double pulse, George Wylde?”
“A double pulse! I am entirely at a loss to understand you. What in heaven’s name do you mean by a double pulse?”
“I mean precisely what I say. I was impressed to feel his pulse. I cannot tell you why, but so it was. There are two beats for every one.”
“Do you mean two beats together?”
“I mean two separate and distinct beats together and in the same second of time.”
“You must be mad, Doctor. Who ever heard of such a thing?”
“I never did—that I swear. Furthermore, I swear that I am not mad. Indeed I am strongly inclined to believe that I am the only thoroughly sane person in this cave.”
He spoke further in the same strain; he positively assured me of the truth of his marvelous statement, and reiterated his belief that there was something all wrong with Maurice’s heart, and that unless an immediate change came he could not long survive. After a moment I left him, and while he went on to fetch the rice I started to return.
I had not gone far before I perceived Walla coming toward me, springing from heaven knew where—the cave was full of turns and corners—she held up her hand warningly, and pointed in the direction of Maurice.
“What is it, Walla?” I asked kindly.
“What ails him? Is he going to die?” she murmured.
“I hope not. God grant that he may not.”
“Something is wrong?”
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
“I cannot explain. Something about his heart.”
“His heart! No! Not that! He is mad! He is talking gibberish! He must be mad for he drives me from him—I who would lay down my life to save his!”
She caught me by the hand and drew me to a place where a projecting point in the rock wall enabled us to watch Maurice unseen.
He was sitting just as we had left him. Although I thought myself prepared for anything I was certainly not prepared for what followed.
Maurice was talking in two languages. At one moment
