"Man alive! I don't see what one fever has to do with the other," said the medical employé, with self-sufficiency. "At all events pray God, Rivera, that it may not be nervous fever."
Miguel, on hearing these words, felt chilled through. A strange trembling passed over his frame. He made an effort to control himself, and said in a voice that was already changed:—
"The doctor told me to take her temperature often."
"And how does her temperature stand?"
Although he did not know what exact connection the degrees had with the fever, yet, terrified by the words that had passed, he did not dare to say that she had forty-one and a few decimals, and replied:—
"Forty centigrade."
"That cannot be; that would be a very high fever.... Come, friend Rivera, it must be confessed that you know more about philosophy than about taking temperatures."
"Yes, Rivera; you must be mistaken," said another.
He stood rooted to the floor; he grew terribly pale, and was on the point of fainting away.
His companions, noticing his pallor, began to encourage him.