"Gorman," he said, with the slow emphasis of absolute conviction, "it's Miss MacAllister's brother."
"Be the love of God, docther, I believe that you are right."
"I know that I'm right, Gorman. It's Allister MacAllister. I was trying to place his resemblance to some one I knew. Now I know what that resemblance is. It is neither to Miss MacAllister nor her mother. It is something between the two. He has his mother's colour of hair and eyes, and form of face, with his sister's expression."
"Right you are, docther. An', docther, he mustn't die."
"He must live, if human power can save him, and God's mercy will spare him," was the solemn reply.
Half-an-hour later a speedy runner left for Tamsui, bearing a letter to Drs. Bergmann and Black, with an account of the case of the wounded Frenchman, a request for needed medicines, and the hope that one of them might be able to come over to the camp before Keelung for a consultation.
They both came. They held a consultation, spoke many kind words of what Sinclair had accomplished, and returned to Tamsui to tell of the most wonderful work they had ever seen accomplished by one doctor against such obstacles.
The day after they left, Sinclair sat by his patient in the tent by the river side. The spring sun was shining gloriously, drawing up the moisture from the saturated earth. The rippling of the river, the scent of the flowers, the song of the birds floated into the tent where the sick man lay. Sinclair had been looking out on the flowing water. Something drew his gaze towards the patient's cot. The large dark eyes were fixed on him, no longer wandering and restless, but intelligent, full of questioning and wonder.
"Where am I?" he asked in French.
"With friends," was the reply in the same language.