King and
sent Marcella down the stairs in a panic.
It was Louis. His eyes were wild, his clothes muddy. He lurched past
Mrs. King and, making a great effort, managed to get upstairs.
In the room, instinct made Marcella shut and lock the door. He had
thrown himself on the bed, his muddy boots on the coverlet. He lay there
breathing heavily for awhile until he was violently sick.
"Oh, Louis--my poor little boy!" she cried, forgetting that he was drunk
in her fear that he was ill.
"You think I'm drunk, ole girl--not drunk 'tall, ole girl."
"Well, get undressed and get into bed," she said, trying to help. He
struck her hand away from his collar fiercely and, holding her arms
twisted them until she had to beg him to let her go.
"Aft' my papers," he cried fiercely. Then he seemed to recognize her and
began to rave about his duty to England, and how England's enemies had
given him poison.
"I'm poisoned, ole girl. I knew what it would be. But when they sent for
me I had to go."
"Who sent for you?"
"They sent a note by King. It came in by the English mail. Th-th-they
have t-t-to b-be s-so c-c-careful," he said, and that was all he would
tell her. Soon he was fast asleep, breathing heavily, and she was
wrestling with a sick disgust at his presence, a fright that he really
had been in danger from enemies and the conviction that he was drunk and
not poisoned.
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