It was the seventh day of Mr Gillespie’s illness when Eachainn returned, and he immediately went to see the sick man, who by this time could scarcely speak. He lay pale and languid, with his eyes closed, and apparently the dews of death on his brow. The lad was greatly shocked. He expected to find him ill, but not so bad as this—not for death. ‘Ochan, ochan!’ he exclaimed, and covering his face with his hands, he burst into tears. The gauger on opening his eyes and seeing his visitor, smiled faintly and said, ‘It’s all over with me, Eachainn.’
‘Oh no, no, sir; don’t say that, I hope you’ll be better soon. And don’t you be thinking of the tàsg, sir, for she’ll not be for you at all, sir, but for the minister’s goodmother, who died last night with the fever, and his children have got it, too, for it’s very smitting; but I’ll no be caring. I’ll just be going up to the manse, and tell the doctor to come to you.’
‘Stop,’ said the gauger with difficulty, and then pointing to his fowling-piece, which stood in a corner, he continued with a faltering voice, ‘Keep it for my sake, for I shall never use it again.’
‘Oh no, sir,’ replied Eachainn in a broken voice. ‘I’ll be hoping to see you use her many’s the time yet. We’ll be shooting the muir-hens together some day, but I must be going for the doctor quick.’ So saying, the lad hurried out of the room, for fear he should again break down.
In about three hours the tramping of a horse announced the arrival of the doctor, who had galloped in from the manse, while Eachainn ran and panted all the way at his horse’s side. And while the doctor was making for the inn, Eachainn ran to his mother’s, and told her to get her herbs ready, for perhaps she would be able to do more good than the doctor, after all their hastening back. He was in the sick-room as soon as the doctor, who, having examined his patient in silence for a few minutes, began the following harangue with a pompous voice and manner—‘You see, sir, you are labouring under what is commonly called a quinsey, but which, professionally, we denominate Cynanche, to which may be added in your case the adjective noun maligna. I regret to say that your case is exceedingly desperate. Had I been able to have seen you earlier, I should have followed Celsus’ excellent advice in these cases, but I am sorry to say that the Celsian treatment is now entirely out of the question. There can be no doubt that the opening into the trachea is very nearly closed up by the phlegmon or inflammation, when death by asphyxia must ensue. There is here, then, but one course. Here,’ taking a small case of instruments out of his pocket, ‘here, you see, is a fine sharp-pointed knife or scalpel, with which an incision being made into your trachea, I shall insert a small tube so as to keep up the communication between the atmosphere and the lungs, to obviate what would otherwise be the fatal closing of the glottis.’ With that the doctor arranged his instruments at the bedside, and was preparing to operate at once, when a dim sense of his intentions began to break in upon the minds of the spectators.
‘And where do you mean to cut, sir?’ asked Somhairle Dubh, first breaking silence.
‘Here, exactly here,’ replied the doctor, placing his finger on Mr Gillespie’s throat a little below the chin.
‘And have you no other cure but that, doctor?’
‘None whatever,’ answered he, shaking his head, and taking up the scalpel, at the sight of which the sick man shrank to the other side of the bed with a look of pitiable despair.
‘No other cure than to cut the duine-uasal’s throat,’ screamed Eachainn, coming forward, with a face blanched with horror; ‘No, no, sir,’ he continued, ‘you’ll shust have to cut my throat first. If you’ll no be doing better than that, I could be doing as good myself with the corran yonder, and not to trouble you to be coming with them awful knives, shust enough to frighten a body.’