He saw Ingolby's face turn grey, and then become white as death itself.
"I see," came from the bluish-white lips, as the stricken man made call on all the will and vital strength in him.
For a long minute Rockwell held the cold hand in the grasp of one who loves and grieves, but even so the physician and surgeon in him were uppermost, as they should be, in the hour when his friend was standing on the brink of despair, maybe of catastrophe irremediable.

He did not say a word yet, however.

In such moments the vocal are dumb and the blind see.
Ingolby heaved himself in the bed and threw up his arms, wresting them from Rockwell's grasp.
"My God--oh, my God-blind!" he cried in agony.

Rockwell drew the head with the sightless eyes to his shoulder.
For a moment he laid one hand on the heart, that, suddenly still, now went leaping under his fingers.

"Steady," he said firmly.