Leaving him, therefore, endeavoring to conceal his chagrin
in the solitude of his chamber, the surgeon proceeded to the more
grateful task of sitting an hour by the bedside of George Singleton. A
slight flush was on the face of the patient as the doctor entered the
room, and the latter advanced promptly and laid his fingers on the pulse
of the youth, beckoning to him to be silent, while he muttered,--
"Growing symptoms of a febrile pulse--no, no, my dear George, you must
remain quiet and dumb; though your eyes look better, and your skin has
even a moisture."
"Nay, my dear Sitgreaves," said the youth, taking his hand, "you see
there is no fever about me; look, is there any of Jack Lawton's
hoarfrost on my tongue?"
"No, indeed," said the surgeon, clapping a spoon in the mouth of the
other, forcing it open, and looking down his throat as if disposed to
visit the interior in person. "The tongue is well, and the pulse begins
to lower again. Ah! the bleeding did you good. Phlebotomy is a sovereign
specific for southern constitutions. But that madcap Lawton absolutely
refused to be blooded for a fall he had from his horse last night. Why,
George, your case is becoming singular," continued the doctor,
instinctively throwing aside his wig. "Your pulse even and soft, your
skin moist, but your eye fiery, and cheek flushed.
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