"Where is the trouble?"
"In my head."
"So I thought. We must get you to bed. I'll send a chit to Bergmann. He is your doctor."
That was the beginning of the fight for life. MacKay was battling with all the determination of his nature against cerebral meningitis. The battle was not very long, but it was exceedingly sharp. By his bedside all the time sat one or other of the three doctors. This stern, reserved, intensely concentrated man had won their respect and admiration, and no effort was spared to save his life. Native students, trained in the elements of nursing, glided noiselessly in and out of the room. Over at the college, where the native preachers, elders, and students assembled, a continuous prayer-meeting was in progress, these yellow and brown-skinned men who "ain't got no souls," praying with the simple faith of little children that their beloved pastor might be restored to health.
On the white bed in the middle of the room, beneath its drapery of mosquito curtains, MacKay's burning head turned ceaselessly from side to side, day and night, day and night without sleep. And day and night, day and night he talked, talked, talked, sometimes in English, sometimes in Chinese, talked without pause or cessation about his converts, the church which he had brought into being.
"My people! ... My people! ... My children in the Lord! ... Who will take care of them? My sheep! ... My poor sheep! ... Left without a shepherd! ... Who will feed them! ... My little lambs! My little lambs! ... Who will protect them from the wolves? ... O God! I commend them to Thee! ... My children! My children in the Lord!"
One day the raving suddenly ceased. Sinclair, startled by the unwonted silence, stepped to his bedside and threw back the curtains. MacKay was sitting bolt upright in bed. The fire of the fever was still in his face and eye. But his voice was perfectly natural, his manner calm and collected.
"Dr. Sinclair, what shall I do for my people? If I die, there is no one to take care of them. Mr. Thomson is not able now—perhaps never will be able. No person could come from Canada for a year, and when one would come, he would need another year or two for the language. Some of the native preachers are able, but none of them have authority to take the lead of their fellows. What shall I do?"
"Do not worry about that now," replied Sinclair soothingly. "There is the Good Shepherd still to lead His sheep. Leave it to Him. It is for you now to recover your strength."
"I am resolved what to do," MacKay went on, as if without noticing Sinclair's reply. "I shall ordain A Hoa and Tan He,[#] the two ablest of the preachers. That will give them authority to lead their brethren. That will make them pastors, shepherds of the sheep. It's irregular, I know. A presbytery should ordain. I'm not a presbytery. It's unusual. But unusual circumstances demand unusual methods. If I live, the church lawyers at home will crucify me for it. If I die, they'll condone my action, praise me in public, and scarify me in private. But neither their praise nor their blame can touch me then."