"War! War! primarily my son. This vile disease used to be the aftermath of battlefields in the old countries. Here it is the Independence Day disease; but the brute-elements are being let loose all over the world. They are growing too strong for us and we cannot hold them in leash," whispered Father Ferrill as he opened the Widow Pressneau's door noiselessly, pushed Dr. Normander in before him and shut it quickly. His next movement was to pull down the shades through which the hot July sun was streaming. The dexterity with which he performed the three essentials for the comfort of the patient afflicted with this fell disease was admirable, although it was of no use for the moment as the boy was in the throes of that species of mortal agony, before which the curtain is drawn all too often for the enlightenment of suffering humanity. "Father! Father! what have I done that my child should be so tormented?" cried the mother as she sank down by the bedside with broken sobs and words of supplication. The priest took her place and waited with crossed hands through convulsion after convulsion, each of which was more terrible than the former one until nothing worse could be imagined. The muscles were strained to their utmost tensity. The body was bent like a bow but the most unbearable of all was the drawn face and the awful semblance of laughter that has been fitly called _risus sardonicus_. Dr. Normander closed his eyes and the mother cried out again in direst agony: "Father! Father! what have I done that the evil spirits should take possession of my child?" "Poor mother, thou hast been more sinned against than sinning I perceive; but hasten now and get hot cloths ready for the next attack; for there will doubtless be another and another, although his face shows signs of relaxing and he may be able to speak to thee and answer thy questionings." The mother went out and the boy lay as still as a stone under the Priest's treatment for a few moments. Then he gave a great gasp and cried: "Mother! Mother! Forgive me before I go. I minded the rich man. I should have minded thee. The rich man said the little play-pistol would not hurt me. It did hurt me, mother. It was a foul fiend." He took the cross in his little wounded hand and clasped it like a vise against his heart and even into the tender flesh until it left its mark there. His lips twitched and quivered as though they were being drawn again into the awful laugh. "_Risus sardonicus_," cried the priest, "Jesus have mercy!" "Jesus have mercy!" cried the mother. "Jesus have mercy!" whispered Dr. Normander. "Jesus have mercy!" cried the boy in a note of triumph. The strained lips relaxed and parted with a heavenly smile and the widow's child had gone to meet the widow's God. CHAPTER V. INSANITY OR EXILE.