At the time that Stormy was teaching, or rather receiving, that terrible
lesson of manners, I was not in the village. I had gone some two or
three miles up the river, to look after my miners at their work.
A messenger brought me the news; and, in breathless haste, I hurried
homewards.
On arriving at the house where Stormy lived, I found him stretched upon
his bed--with a doctor bending over him.
"Rowley, my boy, it's all over with me," said he. "The doctor says so;
and for the first time in my life I believe one."
"Stormy! Stormy! my friend, what has happened?" I asked, as across my
soul swept a wave of anguish more painful than words can describe.
"Never mind any explanation now," interrupted the doctor, turning to me,
and speaking in a low voice. "Do not excite your friend, by making him
converse. You can learn the particulars of his misfortune from some one
else."
The doctor was in the act of leaving; and, interpreting a sign he gave
me, I followed him out. I was told by him, that Stormy had been
stabbed, and that his wound would prove mortal. The man of medicine
imparted some other details of the affair, which he had collected from
the spectators who had witnessed it.
On parting from me, the surgeon gave me warning, that the wounded man
might live two days--certainly not longer.
"He has received an injury," said he, "that must cause his death within
that time. You can do nothing, beyond keeping him as quiet as
possible."
After pronouncing this melancholy prognosis, the surgeon took his
departure, with a promise to call again in the morning.