The ashen grey face of the girl looked into his, as if she would beg him for only one drop of that which was the life.
There came out something like a thick, dark syrup.
He listened again, felt again; one more trial with the lancet, and it was with an air of superiority, and a mouth drawn up like his professor's, that the young bachelor of medicine turned to those assembled and pronounced his concise verdict: "Stone dead! The man's stone dead!--from drink!" His words were followed by a cry from Silla, who threw herself upon her father.
"Is that his daughter ?" asked the young doctor.

He carefully wiped his lancet at the light, and put his instruments together preparatory to going, but gazed at the same time over his spectacles at her.

Heedless of everything, she cried incessantly over the body.
"You aren't dead, are you, father?
Father!" It was a wild sorrow, without consideration or bashfulness, and the young doctor felt that he was witnessing an unpleasant scene from life in the outskirts of the town.

He had done his duty and hastened out.
A twenty-year-old workshop apprentice, pale and overcome, was standing behind Silla, trying to recall her to herself.

He took her by the shoulder, and whispered repeatedly, as loudly as respect for the dead would allow: "Silla! Silla! don't you hear?
It's me--Nikolai!" And he tried in vain two or three times to lift her up from the body.
Meanwhile a policeman stood and examined Mrs.Selvig and the girls.