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gift from benevolent Mother Earth, giving
power to the physician to bring relief to those
the surgeon cannot help, to those who lie
waiting for the other, the Great Physician
who goes from bed to bed with his one
remedy, his everlasting sleeping-draught!
“Listen to them,” said the old Doctor, as
if reading his colleague’s thoughts, “and not
even to be able to give them an injection of
morphia!”
The other sat silent for awhile. “I am,
alas! not more of a surgeon than you are,”
said he at last, “but we both know that
surgery can do nothing for these dying men.”
A hunchback, with quick restless eyes in
an astute face ravaged by smallpox, entered
the sacristy.
“Pierre started before daybreak, Monsieur
le Maire,” said he, “his mother sewed your
letter in his waistcoat-lining, and I made him
repeat all your instructions twice over. He
is as clever as he can be, and I am sure if he
does not succeed nobody else will. He was
to keep away from the high road and ford the
river below the mill.”
“Well done, Anatole,” said the Mayor,
“and may God help him to return safe. He
is quick of foot, and he ought to be back
to-morrow morning if all goes well. This is the
third messenger I have sent to St. ——,”
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