Poor little Keeley stood beside the couch, holding her hand; he was still
in full fig as _Polichinel_; and the grotesqueness of his attire
contrasted strangely with the anguish depicted on his countenance. As I
came forward, he slowly made way for me--looked in my face imploringly, as
if to gather from its expression some gleam of hope, and then stood aside,
in an attitude of profound dejection.
Having felt the sufferer's pulse, I was about to turn her head gently, in
order to examine the nature of the wound, when a hustling noise behind me
causing me to turn round, to my infinite dismay, I perceived Mr. Keeley,
having pushed the bystanders on one side, in the act of performing a kind
of Punchean dance upon the floor, accompanying himself with the vigorous
chuckling and crowing peculiar to the hero whose habiliments he wore. I
was horror-stricken--conceiving that grief had suddenly turned his brain.
All at once, he made a spring towards me, and, seizing my arm, thrust me
into a corner of the room, where he held me fast, exclaiming--
"Wretch! villain! restore me my wife--that talented woman your infernal
arts have destroyed! You did for her!"
"Mr. Keeley," said I, struggling to release myself from his grasp--"my
dear sir, pray compose yourself."
"Unhappy traitor!" he shouted, giving me an unmerciful tweak by the nose;
"Look at her silver skin laced with her golden blood!--see, see! Oh, see!"
This was rather too much, even from a man whose wits were astray.
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