The worthy doctor's amour propre and ambition were both actively engaged in this desperate duel he was fighting with Death, and he set his teeth and determined that the victory must rest with him.

In order to keep the whole glory of the triumph for himself, he had persuaded the prince--not without difficulty--to renounce his intention of sending for the most celebrated surgeons in Paris, assuring him that he himself was perfectly capable to do all that could be done, and pleading that nothing was more dangerous than a change of treatment in such a case as this.

Maitre Laurent conquered, and feeling that there was now no danger of his being pushed into the background, threw his whole heart and strength into the struggle; yet many times during that anxious night he feared that his patient's life was slipping away from his detaining grasp, and almost repented him of having assumed the entire responsibility.

But with the morning came encouragement, and as the watchful surgeon stood at the bedside, intently gazing upon the ghastly face on the pillow, he murmured to himself: "No, he will not die--his countenance has lost that terrible, hippocratic look that had settled upon it last evening when I first saw him--his pulse is stronger, his breathing free and natural.

Besides, he MUST live--his recovery will make my fortune.