“No, but—well, you see, it’s in the new homestead country.”
“Doctor!”
“Not a word. There’s a train leaving in two hours, and you’re going on it. By the time I dress up that face for eczema your own father wouldn’t know it, and a good sousing with iodoform will keep the passengers from getting too curious.”
“But doctor, I cannot have you do this thing. You are assisting a fugitive. You may be held responsible. You are running a risk.”
“Not much. I have no evidence that there is a warrant out for you. If I make a mistake in treating you for eczema that is simply a professional misjudgment. A doctor is permitted to make mistakes—and bury them.”
“But it is at least an evasion of the spirit of the law. Of course, I’m not trying to defend the law, I’m evading it myself, but I don’t want you to be mixed up in it.”
“I’ve been thinking of that, too. I studied your case while you were making your toilet. I’m a good Canadian, and I obey the law. Society is founded upon obedience. But if laws conflict, which am I to obey?”
“The higher law, I suppose,” said Burton, not just clear to what the doctor referred.
“Very well. That is just the way I figured it out. The law of man says, ‘Hand him over to the police.’ The law of God says, ‘Do unto others as ye would—.’ When the law of man conflicts with the law of God, the law of man is ultra vires. We must obey the higher law, and if men generally would do so fewer jails would be needed. So you see how you happen to have eczema.”
“I can’t thank you enough,” said Burton, the moisture gathering in his eyes. “I will repay—when I can.”