He looked at her then with a kind of admiration in his eyes she had never seen before. But at that moment she felt the nausea begin to rise, flooding up irresistibly, and even before she could reach the basin halfway across the room she had started to vomit.

Each time it happened it left her more exhausted, and now she hung for a minute longer over the basin, leaning on her hands, with her burnt-taffy hair concealing her face. All at once she gave a convulsive shudder; the room seemed cold, and yet the fire was burning, all the windows were closed, and the day had been an unusually hot one. At that moment there was a sound behind her. She turned slowly and saw Bruce beginning to get out of bed. With a last desperate surge of her strength she ran toward him.

“Bruce! What are you doing! Get back—” She began to push at him, frantically, but her muscles seemed useless. She had never felt so weak, so helpless, not even after her children had been born.

“I’ve got to get up, Amber! I’ve got to help you!”

He had been out of bed only once or twice since he had fallen sick, and now his body was shining with sweat and his face was violently contorted. Amber began to cry, almost hysterical.

“Don’t, Bruce! Don’t, for God’s sake! You’ll kill yourself! You can’t get up! Oh, after everything I’ve done you’re going to kill yourself—”

Suddenly she dropped to her knees on the floor, put her head in her arms and sobbed. He fell back against the pillows, wiping his hand over his forehead, surprised to find that he was dizzy and that his ears rang, for he had thought himself farther recovered than he was. He reached over to stroke Amber’s head.

“Darling—I won’t get up. Please don’t cry—you need your strength. Lie down and rest. The nurse will be here soon.”

At last, with an intense feeling of weariness, she forced herself to get to her feet and stood looking about the room as though trying to remember something. “What was I going to do—” she murmured at last. “Something—What was it?”

“Can you tell me where the money is, Amber? I’ll need it for supplies. I had none with me.”

“Oh, yes—that’s it, the money.” The words slurred, one over another, as if she had drunk too much cherry-brandy. “It’s in here—I’ll get it—’sin secret panel—”

The parlour seemed a great distance away, farther than she could possibly walk. But she got there at last, and though it took her a while to locate the panel, she finally found it and scooped out the leather wallet and small pile of jewellery that lay there. She brought them back in her apron and dropped them onto the bed beside Bruce. He had managed to lean over and pull out the trundle and now, when he told her to lie down, she collapsed onto it, already half unconscious.

Bruce lay awake through the night, cursing his own helplessness. But he knew that any violent strain now would only make him worse and might kill him. He could help her best by saving his strength until he was well enough to take care of her. He lay there and heard her vomit, again and again, and though each time when she had done she gave a heavy despairing groan, she was otherwise perfectly quiet. So quiet that he would listen, with mounting horror, for the sound of her breathing. And then the retching would begin again. The nurse did not come.

By morning she lay flat on her back, her eyes fixed and wide open but unseeing. Her muscles were perfectly relaxed and she had no consciousness of him or of her surroundings; when he spoke to her she did not hear. The disease had made much swifter progress than it had with him, but it was characteristic of plague to vary its nature with each victim.

He decided that if the nurse did not appear soon he would get out of bed and talk to the guard, but at about seven-thirty he heard the door open and a woman’s boisterous voice called out: “The plague-nurse is here; Where are ye?”

“Come upstairs!”

Within a few moments a woman appeared in the doorway. She was tall and heavy-boned, perhaps thirty-five, and Bruce was relieved to see that she looked strong and at least moderately intelligent. “Come in here,” he said, and she walked forward, her eyes already on Amber. “I’m Lord Carlton. My wife is desperately sick as you can see, and needs the best of care. I’d give it to her myself, but I’m convalescing and not able to get up yet. If you take good care of her—if she lives—I’ll give you a hundred pound.” He lied about their marriage because he thought the truth was none of the woman’s business, and he offered a hundred pounds because he believed it might impress her more than a larger sum which she would probably not expect to get.

She stared at him in surprise. “A hundred pound, sir!”

She drew closer to the trundle then and looked at Amber, whose fingers were picking restlessly at the blanket Bruce had thrown over her, though but for the nervous movements of her hands she would have seemed to be totally unconscious. There were dirty green circles beneath her eyes and the lower part of her face was shiny with the bile and saliva which had dried there; she had not vomited at all for the past three hours.

The woman shook her head. “She’s mighty sick, your Lordship. I don’t know—”

“Of course you don’t know!” snapped Bruce with angry impatience. “But you can try! She’s still dressed. Take her clothes off, bathe her face and hands—get her into the sheets. She’ll be more comfortable at least. She’s been cooking for me and you’ll find soup and whatever else you need in the kitchen. There are clean towels and sheets in that room—The floor must be mopped, and the parlour cleaned. A woman died there yesterday. Now get to work! What’s your name?” he added, as an afterthought.

“Mrs. Sykes, sir. Yes, sir.”

Mrs. Sykes, who told Bruce that she had been a wet-nurse but had lost her job because her husband had died of the plague, worked hard throughout the day. Bruce gave her no opportunity to loaf or to rest, and despite the fact that she knew he was helpless and unable to get out of bed she obeyed his commands meekly—whether from respect of the nobility or one hundred pounds he did not know or care.

But by nightfall Amber seemed, if possible, to be even worse. A carbuncle had begun to swell in her right groin and though it grew larger it remained hard and gave no indication that it would suppurate. Sykes was anxious about that, for it was the worst possible sign, and not even the mustard plasters she applied—which blistered the skin—seemed to have any effect.

“What can we do?” Bruce asked her. “There must be something we can do! What have you done for your patients when the carbuncle wouldn’t break?”

Sykes was staring down at Amber. “Nothing, sir,” she said slowly. “Most usually they die.”

“She’s not going to die!” he cried. “We’ll do something. We’ve got to do something—She can’t die!” He looked less well than he had the day before but he forced himself to stay awake, as though he could keep her alive by holding a vigil over her.

“We might cut into it,” she said. “If it’s still like this tomorrow. That’s what the doctors do. But the pain of the knife sometimes drives ’em mad—”

“Shut up! I don’t want to hear it! Go out and get her something to eat.”

He was almost exhausted and his temper was quick and savage, for he suffered agonizingly over his own impotence. It went through his mind over and over again. She’s sick because of me and now, when she needs me, I lie here like a sot and am able to do nothing!

Almost to his surprise, Amber lived through the night. But by morning her skin was beginning to take on a dusky colour, her breathing grew more shallow and her heart-beats fainter. Sykes told him that those things meant approaching death.

“Then we’ll cut the boil open!”

“But it might kill her!”

Sykes was afraid to do anything, for it seemed that no matter what she did the patient would die and she would lose the greatest fortune she had ever imagined.

He almost shouted at her. “Do as I say!” Then his voice dropped again, he spoke to her quietly but with a swift commanding urgency. “Over in the top drawer of that table there’s a razor—get it. Take the cord off the drapes and bind her knees and ankles together. Wrap the cord around the trundle so she can’t move, and tie her wrists to the corners. Get some towels and a basin. Hurry!”

Sykes scrambled nervously about the room, but within a couple of minutes she had followed his directions. Amber lay bound securely to the trundle and still completely unconscious.

Bruce was close to the edge of the bed. “Pray God she doesn’t know—” he muttered and then: “Now! Take the razor and cut into it—quick and hard! It’ll hurt less that way. Quick!” His right fist clenched and the veins in it swelled.

Sykes looked at him in horror, the razor held tight in her hand. “I can’t, your Lordship. I can’t.” Her teeth began to chatter. “I’m scared! What if she dies under it!”

Bruce was pouring sweat. He licked his tongue over his dry lips and gave a convulsive swallow. “You can, you fool! You’ve got to! Now—do it now!”

Sykes continued to stare at him for a moment and then, as though hypnotized into obedience by the sheer force of his will, she bent and placed the edge of the razor against the hard red knob high up on Amber’s groin. At that moment Amber stirred and her head turned toward Bruce. Sykes gave a start.

“Cut it open!” said Bruce hoarsely, his clenched fist trembling with helpless rage. His face was dark with the rush of blood and the cords in his neck and temples were thick as ropes and throbbing.