Dr. Sarkantyús thereupon told him that his honour, Judge Ligety, was a big donkey, that the French doctor was a still bigger one, but that the old gentleman would be the biggest one of all if he allowed himself to be meddled with. Let them try it, however, by all means, if they choose, he added. Nevertheless, he could not help going out to have a look at this miraculous _Scarabœus_ that professed to be able to cure men with the tips of its antennæ. The young man greeted him with refined courtesy, and the Doctor anxious to show him that he understood French, addressed him in what he supposed to be that language, a smattering of which he had picked up as far back as the time of the Emperor Napoleon I. "Vooz-ate oon medesen, monshoo?" "Oui, monsieur, mon collègue." "The Devil is your collègue, I am not!--Vooe-ate oon magnetizoor, monshoo?" "Oui mon cher bonhomme." "Zate--oon--sharlatanery, monshoo!" "Comme toute la médecine, monsieur." Dr. Sarkantyús put both hands behind his back, measured the young man first from head to foot, and then from foot to head, scratched his own head violently, and retreated precipitately. And now Széphalmi rejoined the stranger, and begged him to come in and see the invalid. In the adjoining chamber where old Hétfalusy was lying, the curtains were drawn and the floor was covered with carpets, so that no light and no noise should disturb the sufferer. On the lofty bed lay a motionless figure, with closed eyes and hands folded across his breast, a motionless, helpless bit of earth, worse off indeed than other bits of earth, because it had the consciousness of existence. The stranger approached the bed, seized one of the cold bony hands, tested the pulse and laid his hand on the invalid's forehead. It might have been a corpse that lay there. The eyes did not open, the blood scarce seemed to flow through the veins, the respiration was hardly perceptible. "He lies like that all day long," said Széphalmi to the stranger. The youth took his rings from his hands, asked for a glass of water, and drew the tips of his fingers first round the rim of the glass and then along the eyeballs and the temples of the old man in a downward direction. Széphalmi stood beside him with a dubious expression. The young man at once observed it. "You, sir, are also a sufferer," said he; "my method can cure you also." Széphalmi smiled bitterly--galvanised corpses may smile in the same way. "The balm that is to cure me does not exist," said he. "My method does not depend on material substances. You shall see. In an hour's time you shall have actual experience of my treatment. Your cases are very much alike." "How so?" "They are due to the same cause. The hidden seat of the evil in both your cases is the mind, both of you are suffering from terrible bereavements, you have lost your wife and two children, the old man his daughter and two grandchildren."