"Do you forgive me?" he whispered, in a voice both hoarse and hollow.
"What for?" smiled Langholm. "You had a right to come where you liked;
it is a free country, Severino."
"But I went to your hotel--behind your back!"
"That was quite fair, my good fellow. Come, I mean to shake hands,
whether you like it or not."
And the sound man took the sick one's hand with womanly tenderness; and
so sat on the bed, looking far into the great dark sinks of fever that
were human eyes; but the fever was of the brain, for the poor fellow's
hand was cool.
"You do not ask me why I did it," came from the tremulous lips at last.
"Perhaps I know."
"I will tell you if you are right."
"It was to see her again--your kindest friend--and mine," said
Langholm, gently.
"Yes! It was to see her again--before I die!"
And the black eyes blazed again.
"You are not going to die," said Langholm, with the usual reassuring
scorn.
"I am. Quite soon. On your hands, I only fear. And I have not seen her
yet!"
"You shall see her," said Langholm, tenderly, gravely. He was rewarded
with a slight pressure of the emaciated hand; but for the first time he
suspected that all the scrutiny was not upon one side--that the sick
youth was trying to read him in his turn.
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