'It is in my head--in the back,' he succeeded in saying.
Greif had fallen in harness, fighting his battle with the morbid energy
of a man already ill. To the very end he had held his position,
resisting even that last tender appeal Hilda had made to him, but the
strain upon his nerves had been too great. He was strong, indeed, but
he was young and not yet toughened into that strange material of which
men of the world are made. The loss of sleep, the deadly impression
made upon him by the death of his father and mother, the terrible
struggle he had sustained with himself, all had combined together to
bring about the crisis. At first it was but a shooting pain in the
head, so sharp as to make his features contract. Then it came again and
again, till it left him no breathing space, and he sank down overcome
by physical torture, but firm in his intention as he had been in the
beginning. It was all over, and he would not argue his case again for
many a long day.
'Take me home--I am very ill,' he gasped, as the baroness tried to feel
his pulse.
But she shook her head, for it seemed to her that it was too late.
'You must stay here until you are better,' she answered softly. 'The
jolting of the carriage would hurt you.'
He closed his eyes again, unable to speak, far less to discuss the
matter. The mother and daughter whispered together and then both left
the room, casting a last anxious glance at Greif as he lay almost
unconscious with pain.
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