"You shouldn't ask it, Loge," he said.

The crisis of the conflict which he was living over passed presently, and he murmured, with contracted brows, and as if talking to himself: "Is Loge a crook?
A crook ?" But after a moment of this he returned again to a rapid repetition of the phrase: "I'm a revolutionist, not a crook-not a crook--not a crook--a revolutionist, not a crook, Loge, not a crook----" Once he varied it, crying with a quick, hot scorn: "I'll cut their throats and be damned to them, but don't ask me to steal." And then he was off again to declaiming his poetry: "I spit, but, as I spit, I weep!" But as Cleggett and the Doctor listened to him the youth's ravings suddenly took a new form.

He ceased to babble; terror expanded the pupils of his eyes and he pointed at vacancy with a shaking finger.
"Stop it!" he cried in a croaking whisper.

"Stop it! It's his skull--it's Loge's skull come alive.

Stop it, I say, it's come alive and getting bigger." With a violent effort he raised himself before the nurse could prevent him, shrinking back from the horrid hallucination which pressed towards him, and then fell prone and senseless on the bunk.
"God!--his wounds!" cried the Doctor, starting forward.