He walked straight to the bed, and glanced at Arithelli's throat, now
almost covered with white patches of membrane. There was no time to
waste if she was to be saved from the ghastliness of slow suffocation.
He went to the head of the stairs and yelled lustily for Maria, whom he
commanded to produce boiling water immediately, thus further adding to
the reputation of the mad English for haste and unreasonableness.
Then he took off his coat, rolled up his sleeves, and began busily to
clear a space on the table, on which he emptied the contents of the box.
All his movements had suddenly become alert and energetic. The joy of
the true physician, the healer, had awakened in him at the prospect of
a duel with Death, and he was no longer merely the slouching,
good-natured wastrel who doctored horses at the Hippodrome.
He possessed for the moment the dignity of a leader, of the master of a
situation. He smiled to himself as he moved about humming a verse of
"Let Ireland remember," and swept away a _debris_ of books, a rouge
pot, some dead flowers, and a large over-trimmed hat.
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