One day the silent old housekeeper came rapping at Medallion’s door, and simply said to him, “Come--the seigneur!” Medallion went, and for hours sat beside the seigneur’s chair, while the little chemist watched and sighed softly in a corner, now and again rising to feel the sick man’s pulse and to prepare a draught. The housekeeper hovered behind the high-backed chair, and when the seigneur dropped his handkerchief--now, as always, of the exquisite fashion of a past century--put it gently in his hand, and he would incline his head ever so gently, and wipe his pale, dry lips with it. Once when the little chemist touched his wrist, his dark eyes rested on him with inquiry, and he said: “How long?” It was useless trying to shirk the persistency of that look. “Ten hours, perhaps, sir,” he said with painful shyness. The seigneur seemed to draw himself up a little, and his hand grasped his handkerchief tightly for an instant; then he said: “So long? Thank you.” Then, after a little, his eyes turned to Medallion, and he seemed about to speak, but still kept silent. His chin dropped on his breast, and for a time he was motionless and shrunken; but still there was a strange little curl of pride--or disdain--to his lips. At last he drew up his head, his shoulders heavily came erect to the carved back of the chair, where, strange to say, the stations of the cross were figured, and he said with a cold, ironical voice: “The angel of patience has lied.” The evening wore on, and there was no sound save the ticking of the clock, the beat of rain upon the windows, and the deep breathing of the seigneur. Presently he started, his eyes opened wide, and his whole body seemed to listen. “I heard a voice,” he said. “No one spoke, my master,” said the housekeeper. “It was a voice without,” he said. “Monsieur,” said the little chemist, “it was the wind in the eaves.” His face was almost painfully eager and sensitively alert. “Hush,” he said, “I hear a voice in the tall porch.” “Sir,” said Medallion, laying a hand respectfully on his arm, “it is nothing.” With a light on his face and a proud, trembling energy, he got to his feet. “It is the voice of my son,” he said. “Go, go, and bring him in.” [Illustration] No one moved. But he was not to be disobeyed. His ears had been growing keener as he neared the subtle atmosphere of that brink where a man strips himself to the soul for a lonely voyaging, and he waved the woman to the door. “Wait,” he said, as her hand fluttered at the handle, “take him to another room. Prepare a supper such as we used to have. When it is ready I will come. But listen, and obey me. Do not tell him that I have but half a dozen hours of life. Go, and bring him in.”