"No. My head weighs as much as the dome of the Pantheon. I think I'm going to bed."
"Oh, my word, I'll help you. Where's that man of mine? Hermann!" When Hermann appeared, Nevitta rattled a sentence of Gothic at him wherein Padway caught the name of Leo Vekkos.
Padway protested: "I don't want a physician—"
"Nonsense, my boy, it's no trouble. You were right about keeping the dogs outside. It cured my wheezes. So I'm glad to help you."
Padway feared the ministrations of a sixth-century physician more than he feared the grippe with which he was coming down. He did not know how to refuse gracefully. Nevitta and Fritharik got him to bed with rough efficiency.
Fritharik said: "It looks to me like a clear case of elf-shot."
"What?" croaked Padway.
"Elf-shot. The elves have shot you. I know, because I had it once in Africa. A Vandal physician cured me by drawing out the invisible darts of the elves. When they become visible they are little arrowheads made of chipped flint."
"Look," said Padway, "I know what's wrong with me. If everybody will let me alone, I'll get well in a week or ten days."
"We couldn't think of that!" cried Nevitta and Fritharik together. While they were arguing, Hermann arrived with a sallow, black-bearded, sensitive-looking man.