But even as Reuben spoke, and Dorcas clung closer than ever to him
in fear that he was about to adventure himself into greater peril,
the delirious man suddenly flung Frederick from him, so that he
fell upon the pavement almost as one dead; and then, with a hideous
shriek that rang in their ears for long, fled back to the house as
rapidly as he had left it, and fell down dead a few moments later
upon the bed from which he had so lately risen.

That fact they learned only the next day. For the moment it was
enough that the patient was safely within doors again, and that the
watchman could make fast the door. The roisterers had fled at the
first sight of the plague-stricken man with their hapless leader in
his embrace, and now the darkening street contained only the
prostrate figure on the pavement, the two brothers, and the
white-faced Dorcas, who felt like to die of fear and horror.

As chance or Providence would have it, up at that very moment came
the Master Builder himself, and seeing his son in such a plight,
shook his head gravely, thinking him drunk in the gutter. But
Reuben went up and told all the tale, as far as he knew or guessed
it, and Dorcas having confirmed the same more by gestures than
words, the unhappy father smote his brow, and cried in a voice of
lamentation:

"Alas that I should have such a son! O unhappy, miserable youth!
what will be thy doom now?"

At this cry Frederick moved, and got slowly upon his feet. He had
been stunned by the violence of his fall, and for the first moment
believed himself drunk, and caught at his father's arm for support.