Then he drew the curtain, and looked on Doctor Sturk. There lay the hero
of the tragedy, his smashed head strapped together with
sticking-plaster, and a great white fold of fine linen, like a fantastic
turban, surmounting his grim yellow features.
Then he slipped his fingers under the coverlet, and took his hand; a
strange greeting that! But it was his pulse he wanted, and when he had
felt it for a while--
'Psha!' said he in a whisper--for the semblance of sleep affected
everyone alike--'his pulse is just gone. Now, Madam, listen to me.
There's not a soul in Chapelizod but yourself who does not know his
wounds are mortal--he's _dying_, Ma'am.'
'Oh--oh--o--o--oh, Mr. Dangerfield, you don't--you don't think so,'
wildly cried the poor little lady, growing quite white with terror and
agony.
'Now, pray, my dear Mistress Sturk, compose yourself, and hear me out:
'Tis my belief he has a chance; but none, absolutely _no_ chance, Madam,
unless my advice be taken. There's not an evening, Ma'am, I meet Doctor
Toole at the club, but I hear the same report--a little lower--always
the same--lower--sinking--and _no hope_.
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