"Give me back that bottle," said Warner, and his voice sounded strangely weak.
"Yes, Great Doctor, it is indeed a precious medicine."
Nitrate of Potash.
The memory of that old woman haunted Warner. He argued continuously with himself. Yes, he had certainly killed her. There was no doubt about it. On the other hand, she would have died in any case. If he had not come upon the scene, she might have lingered on for a few more weary weeks, never free from pain. Still, if he had overdosed her intentionally to end her pain, it would surely have been murder. At best it was a criminal blunder. But then he meant well. So, too, do other fools. Common sense told him he had no cause to worry, nothing to regret, it was merely a fortunate accident. Conscience viewed the matter seriously and with harshness.
Warner was still engaged in this mental struggle when a stranger, a white man, walked briskly up to his tent.
"Is anyone at home?"
"Yes, come in."
"Have you any nitrate of potash, doctor?"
Warner had become so used to the term "doctor" that he did not at once notice the significance of the word when spoken by a white man. So he merely answered: "Yes, I think so. What do you want it for?"
"I, too, am a doctor."