He sat down like an automaton.

He was speechless, but he saw a glass full of rough red wine before him, and emptied it.

Heyst meantime, politely watchful, had taken a seat opposite.
"You are in for a bout of fever, I fear," he said sympathetically.
Poor Morrison's tongue was loosened at that.
"Fever!" he cried.

"Give me fever.

Give me plague.