The awful day drew to a close. The exhausted attendants stood about the bed with bated breath. The physicians had called Doctor Morton in consultation, for the latter was a brain specialist. And while they sat gazing at the crazed, stricken giant, hopelessly struggling to lift the inert mass of his dead body, Reverend Darius Borwell entered. He bowed silently to them all; then went to the bedside and took the patient’s hand. A moment later he turned to the physicians and nurses.
“Let us ask God’s help for Mr. Ames,” he said gravely.
They bowed, and he knelt beside the bed and prayed long and earnestly; prayed that the loving Father who had made man in His image would take pity on the suffering one who lay there, and, if it be His will, spare him for Jesus’ sake.
He arose from his knees, and they all sat quiet for some moments. Then Doctor Morton’s heavy voice broke the silence of death. “Mr. Borwell,” he said in awful earnestness, extending his hand toward the bed, “cure that man, if your religion is anything more than a name!”
A hot flush of indignation spread over the minister’s face; but he did not reply. Doctor Morton turned to the physicians.
“Gentlemen,” he said solemnly, “Mr. Ames, I think, is past our aid. There is nothing on earth that can save him. If he lives, he will be hopelessly insane.” He hesitated, and turned to a maid. “Where is his daughter Kathleen?” he asked.
“Upstairs, sir, in her apartments,” answered the maid, wiping her red eyes.
“See that she remains there,” said the doctor gruffly. “Gentlemen,” turning again to the physicians, “I have but one suggestion. Send for––for––that little girl, Carmen.”
“It is ill-advised, Doctor,” interrupted one of the men. “It would only further excite him. It might hasten the end.”
“I do not agree with you,” returned Doctor Morton. “As it is, he is doomed. With her here––there may be a chance.”