He went to the door and looked into the room.

John Saltram was lying asleep, in an uneasy attitude, with both arms thrown over his head.

His face had a haggard look that was made all the more ghastly by two vivid crimson spots upon his sunken cheeks; there were dark purple rings round his eyes, and his beard was of more than a week's growth.
"Ill," Gilbert muttered, looking aghast at this dreary picture, with strangely conflicting feelings of pity and anger in his breast; "struck down at the very moment when I had determined to know the truth." The sick man tossed himself restlessly from side to side in his feverish sleep, changed his position two or three times with evident weariness and pain, and then opened his eyes and stared with a blank unseeing gaze at his friend.

That look, without one ray of recognition, went to Gilbert's heart somehow.
"O God, how fond I was of him!" he said to himself.

"And if he has been a traitor! If he were to die like this, before I have wrung the truth from him--to die, and I not dare to cherish his memory--to be obliged to live out my life with this doubt of him!" This doubt! Had he much reason to doubt two minutes afterwards, when John Saltram raised himself on his gaunt arm, and looked piteously round the room?
"Marian!" he called.