Upon a palliasse in one of the cabins on the eastern slope a young man lay dying of pneumonia, that fell disease which the medical science of the day could only fight by sage shakings of the head and a judicious use of the cupping-glass. The commandant's own doctor stood there, a man with some knowledge of medicinal plants and skilled by long experience in the treatment of sword-cuts, helplessly watching the exodus of his patient. "I resign him to your charge, good father," he said, bending his back to the priest. "He has passed beyond the help of science. Had I been summoned earlier"--he shrugged his shoulders--"a discreet use of the lance might well have relieved the fatal rush of blood to the brain and saved a life for the king." "Perchance an incision in the stomach to release the foul vapours----" began St Agapit. "Useless, my father. The disease, I do assure you, is in the blood." The abbé knelt and administered the last sacraments of his Church. The young soldier remained entirely conscious and his confession came in a steady whisper. "Father," he concluded, "I would speak with the commandant." St Agapit looked at the physician by the flickering light of a pine torch. The latter shook his head. "'Tis impossible. Roussilac is at supper. But I may leave a message as I pass." "Say that Jean-Marie Labroquerie calls on him with his dying breath," whispered the soldier. The physician left; the woman who owned the cabin moved silently in preparation for the carrying out of the body, because people were practical in the days when death by violence occurred almost hourly. St Agapit lowered his thin face to catch the message of the passing man. "Hidden in the straw you shall find a roll of parchment. I pray you take it and use it as you will. It is the work of my father, a learned man. We quarrelled. I stole his work and left my home. I repented and would have taken it back. It was of no service to me. I cannot read. If it be of value, let my old father gain the profit." "Does he live within the New World?" "Two days' journey beyond the river. In a log cabin surrounded by a palisade which these hands erected. My father healed some Indians who were sick, and thus obtained their friendship. There was I brought up with my sister, my fair sister. Oh, my father, I would see again my sister. I would feel the touch of her hand, and see her bright hair that flamed in the sun. I would give these my last moments for the sight of her eyes, and the sound of her voice, saying as she was wont, 'Jean-Marie, my brother! Life is a glorious gift.' Ah, my father!" "Peace, son. Set your mind upon this suffering." The abbé held a crucifix into the glow of the torch.