I must and will tear him out of the grim clutches of Death--fine, handsome, young fellow that he is, and the heir and hope of his noble family--it will be long ere his tomb need be made ready to receive him.

He will help me to get away from this wretched little village, where I vegetate ignobly, and eat my heart out day by day.

Now for a bold stroke!--at the risk of producing fever--at all risks--I shall venture to give him a dose of that wonder-working potion of mine." Opening his case of medicines, he took out several small vials, containing different preparations--some red as a ruby, others green as an emerald--this one yellow as virgin gold, that bright and colourless as a diamond--and on each one a small label bearing a Latin inscription.

Maitre Laurent, though he was perfectly sure of himself, carefully read the inscriptions upon those he had selected several times over, held up the tiny vials one after another, where a ray of sunshine struck upon them, and looked admiringly through the bright transparent liquids they contained--then, measuring with the utmost care a few drops from each, compounded a potion after a secret recipe of his own; which he made a mystery of, and refused to impart to his fellow practitioners.

Rousing his sleeping assistant, he ordered him to raise the patient's head a little, while, with a small spatula, he pried the firmly set teeth apart sufficiently to allow the liquid he had prepared to trickle slowly into the mouth.