“Well, Segwuna, how is the gentleman this morning? I see that he is not quite as flushed as he was yesterday. If his strength will hold out to-day and to-morrow, we can hope to get him up.” “Yes, Dr. Greydon, Mr. Barclugh is easier this morning, but he was very sick at midnight. He was nervous and in great distress so I put a mustard plaster on his stomach and it immediately quieted him.” “You did perfectly right, Segwuna, my child. This fever seems to attack the membranes of the stomach, and if you apply external applications, you draw the congestion from the vital spot. “Now, Segwuna,” continued Dr. Greydon, “you go and rest yourself, while I remain here. Then you will be able to stand another night’s vigil.” “Very well, I shall do so,” and Segwuna went to the couch that she had prepared for herself in the former dining-room, where she slept soundly until late in the afternoon. In the meantime, Dr. Biddle came and relieved Dr. Greydon at the bedside of Roderick Barclugh, so that he was not a minute without constant watching at his side. Between the two doctors a consultation was held, and they both agreed that the sick man had a fighting chance for recovery, if his constitution could stand the wear on his stomach and heart. No food was to be administered until the fever was reduced, and then slight stimulants were to be given to re-enforce the action of the heart. Segwuna could nurse him by night, and the two doctors agreed to divide their time during the day with the patient. When Segwuna awoke from her sound sleep, she made her way to the sick-room, and found Dr. Biddle taking his temperature with his thermometer. The temperature was 104 degrees Fahrenheit, and the pulse was 95 and a glassy stare was noticeable in the eyes of the sick man who lay there in a condition of stupor. His face was of a purplish-red hue, and his cheeks began to lose that full and lively glow of health; a parched and drawn appearance of the skin over the cheek-bones began to be noticeable. Also during the day he had suffered a few attacks of the _vomito negro_ that taxes the strength of the human organism to the utmost. Dr. Biddle whispered to Segwuna as she came beside the sick-bed: “He is very sick and you better give him a teaspoonful of this solution in that tumbler every half-hour. If he can hold his own for the next thirty-six hours, he will begin to gain. This paroxysm of the fever usually reaches its crisis within three days, and after that, if his strength is sufficient to sustain vital action, his case is hopeful. But Segwuna, it all depends on the heart. This high temperature and this terrible pulse! If it lasts too long, there can be no hope.” “Yes, Doctor, I know that this _peste_ is a very grave disorder, and I shall not neglect your instructions,” replied Segwuna, as Dr. Biddle gathered up his medicine case and left. The pride and power of man vanish when dread disease lays him low and brings him next to dissolution!