“It is as I hoped,” panted Holles ... “that yours might be some such office. I need a doctor, man, quickly, for one who is taken with the plague.” The examiner’s manner became brisk at once. “Where?” he demanded. “Close at hand here, in Knight Ryder Street.” “Why, then, Dr. Beamish, there at the corner, is your man. Come.” And thus it happened that, from the sleep which had succeeded the swoon that so mercifully whelmed her senses, Nancy was aroused by a sound of steps and voices. Where she lay she faced the door of the room. And, as through billows of mist that now rolled before her eyes, she saw the tall figure of Colonel Holles enter followed by two strangers. One of these was a little birdlike man of middle age; the other was young and of a broad frame and a full countenance. Both were dressed in black, and each carried the red wand which the law prescribed. The younger man, who was the examiner met by Holles in Sermon Lane, came no farther than the threshold. He was holding close to his nostrils a cloth that gave out a pungent, vinegary smell, and his jaws worked vigorously the while, for he was chewing a stick of snake-root as a further measure of prevention. Meanwhile, his companion, who was that same Dr. Beamish he had recommended, approached the patient and made a swift, practised, and silent examination. She suffered it in silence, too utterly trammelled by lethargy to give much thought or care to what might now betide her. The physician held her wrist for a moment in his bony fingers, the middle one upon her pulse. Next he carefully examined the blotch upon her throat. Finally he raised first one of her arms and then the other, whilst Holles at his bidding held the candle-branch so as to cast the light into the armpit. A grunt escaped him upon the discovery of a swelling in the right one. “This is unusually soon,” he said. “It is seldom before the third day that there is such a manifestation.” With the forefinger he tested the consistency of that swelling, sending sharp, fiery streams of pain through all her body as it seemed to her. He lowered the arm again, and straightened himself, considering her a moment with pursed lips and thoughtful eyes. At his elbow Holles spoke in a toneless voice: “Does it ... does it mean that her case is beyond hope?” The physician looked at him. “_Dum vivimus, speremus_,” said he. “Her case need not be hopeless any more than another’s. Much depends upon the energy with which the disease is fought.” He saw the flash of Holles’s eyes at that, as through the Colonel’s mind sped the vow that if it was a matter of a fight he was there to wage it. He would fight the plague for her as fiercely as he had fought Buckingham. Beholding his sudden transfiguration, the physician, in charity--lest the man should delude himself with false hopes--thought well to add: