Doctor (gloomily). So many of them die.
Bishop. It seems so; even without the aid of a surgeon. (He hands the Doctor the nest, who, not knowing what else to do with it, nor how to reply to the Bishop’s impertinence, places it on the ledge of the high and sloping couvre-feu over the fireplace.)
Doctor. There! The heat will do them good; nourish them. For heat is life. Calor est vita optima. (Mumbling and muttering to himself.) Galen hath said it.—Galen!—
Bishop (after a long pause, softly). Doctor Mabrise—tell me—is there no way, no hope, of keeping Monseigneur alive?
Doctor (warming his thin brown hands in front of the fire). My science knows none; she is at her wits’ end. And when science is at her wits’ end⸺
Bishop (drily). Methinks she hath but a short road to travel!
Doctor (piqued). Then let the Church try, my good Bishop; let the Church try. For if ever there were need for one of your miracles⸺
Bishop (gravely). Ah!
Doctor (points to the bed). There is your subject, ready for you; waiting. A dying child. You have my authority to begin.
Bishop (drily). Then we will begin by opening the windows; we will admit some of this soft spring air. (He unlatches and throws wide open one of the few windows of the bedchamber; while the Doctor, himself a poor consumptive, shivers and cowers over the fire.) You don’t like it?