Oh, the heat, the heat, the burning raging heat!" The tortured creature
burst into a dreadful cry of rage and pain. It was more than Hugh's
resolution could support. He hurried out of the house.
* * * * * * * *
Ten days passed. A letter, in a strange handwriting, reached Iris at
Passy.
The first part of the letter was devoted to the Irish desperado, whom
Mrs. Vimpany had attended in his illness.
When she only knew him as a suffering fellow-creature she had promised
to be his nurse. Did the discovery that he was an assassin justify
desertion, or even excuse neglect? No! the nursing art, like the
healing art, is an act of mercy--in itself too essentially noble to
inquire whether the misery that it relieves merits help. All that
experience, all that intelligence, all that care could offer, the nurse
gave to the man whose hand she would have shrunk from touching in
friendship, after she had saved his life.
A time had come when the fever threatened to take Lord Harry's
vengeance out of his hands. The crisis of the disease declared itself.
With the shadow of death on him, the wretch lived through it--saved by
his strong constitution, and by the skilled and fearless woman who
attended on him.
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