“Doctor Saklava, I know you to be a physician of great judgment and equal skill. The governor vouches for you and I am more than grateful to have had your aid so promptly. If you say there is no hope, I must cease to indulge in any. But oh—if only something could be done!” Then in a calmer voice he continued: “The boy is young, his constitution strong, and after all youth clings to life! Is there truly no hope? It means so much to me!” The Parsee remained motionless and silent. The other went on:
“When I asked the governor for help he dispatched his chief surgeon at the same time he sent for you; Major Murdock might arrive at any moment. Will you not await him, pray, while I go in to the boy? How soon do you think will he awaken to consciousness?”
“In less than half an hour, my lord. And I think his mind will be clearer; indeed he may be perfectly rational. But his heart is very weak and his vitality low. The next attack of fever, which I beg to assure you cannot be prevented, will be his last, I fear. His temperature is now as high as any man can bear and live; his pulse is galloping and his lungs are under the maximum tension. I shall join your man in the grove and will await Major Murdock’s arrival. I presume he will bring a nurse and a cot?”
“The governor had arranged with the hospital at Mahabalibar. Would we could have found the boy a day sooner!”
“My lord, the seed of death is in man when the seed of life is planted. Any time during the past week your friend’s chances would have been no better. This district of ours is not the place for passionate youth from foreign lands, nor is it the country where indulgence can be committed with impunity. Our sun is cruel, our climate is deadly. He who cares not for his life here—is lost. Grieve not, my lord; fate has overtaken your young friend, but he will pass out free from pain and unconscious of the end that is inevitable. Until later, my lord.”
While the deeply salaaming physician retired, his tall companion returned with careful, noiseless step to the sick-room and seated himself facing the sufferer.
His elbows on his knees and his face buried in his palms, he contemplated the white and almost lifeless features of the dying youth. The regular, finely moulded face was fair like a woman’s, the proud, bold nose, high faultless brow and beautiful, wavy, chestnut hair, arched lips and delicate chin betokened a distinguished and even noble ancestry. Two spots of crimson showed on the cheeks, almost the only signs of life, and imparted an appearance of extreme youthfulness and innocence; the lips were red and bright, the closed eyelids clear and smooth. Must the boy die?
This silent musing brought a flood of memories to the motionless watcher. His eyes grew clouded, tears gathered in them. The boy slept on insensible to the bitter grief he was causing, unconscious of everything, peaceful and still.
A shadow fell across the doorway. Brushing his eyes the man rose quickly and cautiously passed out to greet the new arrival. It was Major Murdock, the surgeon, a severe-looking, stout man in undress uniform. A few whispered words, a handshake and the two physicians followed the tall man into the sick-room.
Dr. Murdock examined the sleeper’s face carefully, thoroughly investigated chest, heart-beat, pulse and temperature. His examination over he, in a low voice, requested the others to join him in the primitive porch.