"I am dying," the wounded man groaned.
Adler, in utter bewilderment, pulled his fingers till the joints cracked.
"He is mad! Good Lord! he is out of his mind! Tell him he is silly, doctor—he speaks of dying.... As if we should allow him to die! You have been promised ten thousand roubles: that is not enough," feverishly continued the old man. "I will give a hundred thousand for my son, if there is the slightest danger. But mind you, I am not going to pay if he is merely silly. What is his condition?"
"It is not exactly dangerous," replied the doctor; "yet we must be careful."
"Of course! Do you hear him, Ferdinand? Now, don't bother yourself and me.... Johann! Send a wire to Warsaw for all the best doctors. Send to Vienna and Berlin—to Paris, if necessary. Let the doctor give you the addresses of the most famous men. I will pay ... I have enough money...."
"Oh, I feel so terribly ill," Ferdinand groaned, tossing about on the couch. His father hurried to his side.
"Compose yourself," said the doctor.
"Father!" cried the dying man; "my father, I cannot see you any more!"
Blood appeared on his lips. His eyes were dilated with despair.
"Air!" he cried.