Everybody crowded to the stage; whilst I, with a presence of mind which afterwards surprised myself, made my way out by a side-door and ran to fetch my father.

He was fortunately at home, and in less than ten minutes the Chevalier was under his care.

We found him laid upon a sofa in one of the sitting-rooms of the inn, pale, rigid, insensible, and surrounded by an idle crowd of lookers-on.

They had taken off his cap and beard, and the landlady was endeavoring to pour some brandy down his throat; but his teeth were fast set, and his lips were blue and cold.
"Oh, Doctor Arbuthnot! Doctor Arbuthnot!" cried a dozen voices at once, "the Conjuror is dying!" "For which reason, I suppose, you are all trying to smother him!" said my father angrily.

"Mistress Cobbe, I beg you will not trouble yourself to pour that brandy down the man's throat.