y in living before the dark shall close over him again, and
wrap him round for ever?

He has suffered horribly of late. But at the worst his work has never
failed to bring relief and distraction. Pure loyalty to a man in whom he
believes, has been the main-spring of his unflagging strength. He is not
liked or popular in any way, though Surgeon-Major Taggart upholds him
manfully, and McFadyen is loyal to the old bond. His harshness repels
regard, his coldness blights confidence, and so, though he is admired for
his dazzling skill in surgery, for his dogged perseverance and unremitting
power of application, for his fine horsemanship and iron nerve; he is not
regarded with affection.

He is not in the least aware of it, to do him justice, when his rough
ironies and his brusque repartees give offence. In the heyday of his
London success he has not truckled to Rank, or Influence, or Affluence.
The owner of a gouty or a varicose leg has never had the more civil tongue
from Saxham that the uneasy limb or its fellow was privileged upon State
occasions to wear the Garter. He trod upon corns then, as he treads upon
them now, without being aware of it, as he goes upon his way.

Julius goes with him, rent by apprehensions, stealing nervous side-glances
at the impassive, opaque-skinned face as Saxham swings along with his
powerful, rather lurching gait over the ploughed and littered waste that
divides the Hospital from the town beyond it. He speaks once or twice, but
Saxham seems not to hear.

The Doctor is listening to a dialogue that is as yet unspoken. He is
crushing a resistance that has not yet been made. In imagination his
small, strong, muscular hands are gripped about the throat of the man who
has lied to her and deceived her; and he is listening with joy to the
gurgling, choking efforts to phrase a prayer for mercy, or utter a final
defiance; and he sees with grim pleasure how the fine skin blackens under
his deadly hold, and how the lazy, beautiful, grey-green eyes, no longer
sleepy or defiant, but staring and horribly bloodshot, are already rolling
upwards in the death-agony. The primitive savage that is in every man
lusts at a juncture such as this, to kill with the bare hands rather than
to slay with any weapon known to civilisation.

"Let him look to it how he deals with her! Let him look to it!"

How long it seems since Saxham muttered those words, turning sullenly away
to recross the stepping-stones, leaping fro