His hands--clutched convulsively now on the blankets--were small and well-shaped, and the unshaven chin bristled with promise of a strong beard.

His wild black eyes glared with all the fire of delirium, and as he gasped for breath, the sweat stood in beads on his sallow forehead.
The aspect of the man was sufficiently ghastly, and Miles, drawing back with an oath, did not wonder at the terror which had seized Mrs.
Vickers's maid.

With open mouth and agonized face, she stood in the centre of the cabin, lantern in hand, like one turned to stone, gazing at the man on the bed.
"Ecod, he be a sight!" says Miles, at length.

"Come away, miss, and shut the door.

He's raving, I tell yer." The sound of his voice recalled her.
She dropped the lantern, and rushed to the bed.
"You fool; he's choking, can't you see?
Water! give me water!" And wreathing her arms around the man's head, she pulled it down on her bosom, rocking it there, half savagely, to and fro.
Awed into obedience by her voice, Miles dipped a pannikin into a small puncheon, cleated in the corner of the cabin, and gave it her; and, without thanking him, she placed it to the sick prisoner's lips.