Mechanically St.
George passed his hand along the inert arm, and it was no more withered than his own--the arm of no greybeard, but of a man in the prime of life.

What did it mean--what did it mean?
St.George waited, the blood throbbing in his temples, a mist before his eyes.
What did it mean?
The minutes dragged by and still the unconscious man did not stir or unclose his eyes.

From time to time St.George pressed his hand to the heart, and found it beating on rhythmically, powerfully.

When he found himself sitting with averted head, as if he were afraid to look back at that changing face, a fear seized him that he had lost his reason and that what he imagined himself to see was a phase of madness.

So he left the old man's side and sturdily tramped away into the huge dark of the room, resolutely explaining to himself that this was all very natural; the old man had been ill, improperly nourished, and the powerful stimulant of the wine had partly restored him.