to-day, he failed of no duty to rich or poor. But for those who
disputed his views of practice he had only the most virulent abuse. A
firm friend, an unpardoning hater, and in some ways far ahead of his
time, was the man who now sat down as he said: "I must bleed him at
once. Calomel and blood-letting are the only safety, sir. I bled Dr.
Griffith seventy-five ounces to-day. He will get well." The doctor bled
everybody, and over and over.

His voice seemed to rouse Schmidt. He cried out: "Take away that horse
leech. He will kill me." He fought them both and tore the bandage from
his arm. The doctor at last gave up, unused to resistance. "Give him the
calomel powders."

"Out with your drugs!" cried the sick man, striking at him in fury, and
then falling back in delirium again, yellow and flushed. The doctor left
in disgust, with his neat wrist ruffles torn. On the stair he said: "He
will die, but I shall call to-morrow. He will be dead, I fear."

"Is he gone?" gasped Schmidt, when, returning, Rene sat down by his
bedside.

"Yes, sir; but he will come again."

"I do not want him. I want air--air." As he spoke, he rose on his elbow
and looked about him. "I knew you would come. I should never have sent
for you. _Mein Gott!_" he cried hoarsely, looking at the room and the
bedclothes. "Horrible!" His natural refinement was shocked at what he
saw. "_Ach!_ to die like a wallowing pig is a torture of disgust! An
insult, this disease and torment." Then wandering again: "I pray you,
sir, to hold me excused."

The distracted young man never forgot that night. The German at dawn,
crying, "Air, air!" got up, and despite all De Courval could do
staggered out to the upper porch and lay uncovered on a mattress upon
which De Courval dragged him. The milk and food came, and at six o'clock
Stephen Girard.

"I have been up all night," he said; "but here is a black to help you."

To De Courval's delight, it was old Cicero, who, lured by high wages
given to the negro, whom even the pest passed by, had left the widow's
service.

"Now," said Girard, "here is help. Pay him well. Our friend will die, I
fear; and, sir, you are a brave man, but do not sit here all day."

De Courval, in despair at his verdict, thanked him. But the friend was
not to die. Cicero proved faithful, and cooked and nursed and Rene, as
the hours of misery went on, began to hope. The fever lessened in a day
or two, but Schmidt still lay on the porch, speechless,