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           Helayashehadfallen,allhuddled,withonekneeupandonearmsprawlingabroad;hisfacehadastrangecolourofblue,andheseemedtohaveceasedbreathing.Fearcameonmethathewasdead;thenIgotwateranddasheditinhisface;andwiththatheseemedtocomealittletohimself,workinghismouthandflutteringhiseyelids.Atlasthelookedupandsawme,andtherecameintohiseyesaterrorthatwasnotofthisworld.

           “Come,come,”saidI;“situp.”

           “Areyealive?”hesobbed.“Oman,areyealive?”

           “ThatamI,”saidI.“Smallthankstoyou!”

           Hehadbeguntoseekforhisbreathwithdeepsighs.“Thebluephial,”saidhe—“intheaumry—thebluephial.”Hisbreathcameslowerstill.

           Irantothecupboard,and,sureenough,foundthereabluephialofmedicine,withthedosewrittenonitonapaper,andthisIadministeredtohimwithwhatspeedImight.

           “It’sthetrouble,”saidhe,revivingalittle;“Ihaveatrouble,Davie.It’stheheart.”

           Isethimonachairandlookedathim.ItistrueIfeltsomepityforamanthatlookedsosick,butIwasfullbesidesofrighteousanger;andInumberedoverbeforehimthepointsonwhichIwantedexplanation:whyheliedtomeateveryword;whyhefearedthatIshouldleavehim;whyhedislikedittobehintedthatheandmyfatherweretwins—“Isthatbecauseitistrue?”Iasked;whyhehadgivenmemoneytowhichIwasconvincedIhadnoclaim;and,lastofall,whyhehadtriedtokillme