"I regret, then, to say to you that she is very ill. Her malady is typhoid fever, in its most dangerous form. I fear that she will not recover: she must have been ill for some weeks, and have concealed her illness. Has she suffered mentally of late?"
"Yes, I believe that she has," faltered the banker. "Will she die?"
"I am afraid to give you any hope—the disease has gone so far. It is strange. Was there no relative near her to see how ill she has been for so long a time?"
Gracious Heaven! What torture he inflicted upon the guilty father! At that moment he would have recalled Gunther, and welcomed him as a son, could his presence have saved the child whom himself had murdered!
"Doctor," said he, in husky, trembling tones, "doctor, you must save my child. Ask what you will—I am rich, and if you restore her to me, you shall have a million!"
"Unhappily, life cannot be bought with gold," replied the physician. "God alone can restore her. We can do naught but assist Nature, and alleviate her sufferings."
"How can we alleviate her suffering?" asked Eskeles humbly, for his spirit was broken.
"By cool drinks, and cold compressions upon her head," said the physician. "Are there no women here to serve her?"
"No," murmured the banker. "My daughter is a prisoner. She is Rachel
Eskeles Flies."
"Ah! The Deist who was to have suffered to-morrow? Poor, poor child, neither church nor synagogue can avail her now, for God will take her to himself."