They caught him and got him to bed, and Rolfe said it was fever; and,
with the assistance of Sir Charles and a footman, laid him between two
towels steeped in tepid water, then drew blankets tight over him, and,
in short, packed him.
"Ah!" said he, complacently; "I say, give me a drink of moonshine, old
chap."
"I'll give you a bucketful," said Rolfe; then, with the servant's help,
took his little bed and put it close to the window; the moonlight
streamed in on the boy's face, his great black eyes glittered in it. He
was diabolically beautiful. "Kiss me, moonshine," said he; "I like to
wash in you."
Next day he was, apparently, quite well, and certainly ripe for fresh
mischief. Rolfe studied him, and, the evening before he went, gave Sir
Charles and Lady Bassett his opinion, but not with his usual alacrity;
a weight seemed to hang on him, and, more than once, his voice
trembled.
"I shall tell you," said he, "what I see--what I foresee--and then,
with great diffidence, what I advise.
"I see--what naturalists call a reversion in race, a boy who resembles
in color and features neither of his parents, and, indeed, bears little
resemblance to any of the races that have inhabited England since
history was written. He suggests rather some Oriental type.
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