"Ask Honore if the doctor should not come." But
Honore shook his head. The old man began again.

"Honore! Where is Honore? Stand by me, here, Honore; and sister?--on
this other side. My eyes are very poor to-day. Why do I perspire so?
Give me a drink. You see--I am better now; I have ceased--to throw up
blood. Nay, let me talk." He sighed, closed his eyes, and opened them
again suddenly. "Oh, Honore, you and the Yankees--you and--all--going
wrong--education--masses--weaken--caste--indiscr'--quarrels settl'--by
affidav'--Oh! Honore."

"If he would only forget," said one, in an agonized whisper, "that
_philippique generale_!"

Aurora whispered earnestly and tearfully to Madame Grandissime. Surely
they were not going to let him go thus! A priest could at least do no
harm. But when the proposition was made to him by his sister, he said:

"No;--no priest. You have my will, Honore,--in your iron box. Professor
Frowenfeld,"--he changed his speech to English,--"I have written you an
article on--" his words died on his lips.

"Joseph, son, I do not see you. Beware, my son, of the doctrine of equal
rights--a bottomless iniquity. Master and man--arch and pier--arch
above--pier below." He tried to suit the gesture to the words, but both
hands and feet were growing uncontrollably restless.

"Society, Professor,"--he addressed himself to a weeping girl,--"society
has pyramids to build which make menials a necessity, and Nature
furnishes the menials all in dark uniform. She--I cannot tell you--you
will find--all in the _Philippique Generale_. Ah! Honore, is it--"

He suddenly ceased.

"I have lost my glasses."

Beads of sweat stood out upon his face. He grew frightfully pale. There
was a general dismayed haste, and they gave him a stimulant.

"Brother," said the sister, tenderly.

He did not notice her.

"Agamemnon! Go and tell Jean-Baptiste--" his eyes drooped and flashed
again wildly.

"I am here, Agricole," said the voice of Jean-Baptiste, close beside the
bed.

"I told you to let--that negress--"

"Yes, we have let her go. We have let all of them go."

"All of them," echoed the dying man, feebly, with wandering eyes.
Suddenly he brightened again and tossed his arms. "Why, there you were
wrong, Jean-Baptiste; the community must be protected." His voice sank
to a murmur. "He would not take off--'you must remem'--" He was silent.
"You must remem'--those people are--are not--white people." He ceased a
moment. "Wh