Even while it was taking all the two women’s strength to hold the door against Death, the sick man himself laid a grief upon them.

“Mother,” he said to Madame John, quite a master of French in his delirium, “dear mother, fear not; trust your boy; fear nothing.  I will not marry ’Tite Poulette; I cannot.  She is fair, dear mother, but ah! she is not—­don’t you know, mother? don’t you know?  The race! the race!  Don’t you know that she is jet black.  Isn’t it?”

The poor nurse nodded “Yes,” and gave a sleeping draught; but before the patient quite slept he started once and stared.

“Take her away,”—­waving his hand—­“take your beauty away.  She is jet white.  Who could take a jet white wife?  O, no, no, no, no!”

Next morning his brain was right.

“Madame,” he weakly whispered, “I was delirious last night?”

Zalli shrugged.  “Only a very, very, wee, wee trifle of a bit.”

“And did I say something wrong or—­foolish?”

“O, no, no,” she replied; “you only clasped your hands, so, and prayed, prayed all the time to the dear Virgin.”

“To the virgin?” asked the Dutchman, smiling incredulously.

“And St. Joseph—­yes, indeed,” she insisted; “you may strike me dead.”

And so, for politeness’ sake, he tried to credit the invention, but grew suspicions instead.

Hard was the battle against death.  Nurses are sometimes amazons, and such were these.  Through the long, enervating summer, the contest lasted; but when at last the cool airs of October came stealing in at the bedside like long-banished little children, Kristian Koppig rose upon his elbow and smiled them a welcome.

The physician, blessed man, was kind beyond measure; but said some inexplicable things, which Zalli tried in vain to make him speak in an undertone.  “If I knew Monsieur John?” he said, “certainly!  Why, we were chums at school.  And he left you so much as that, Madame John?  Ah! my old friend John, always noble!  And you had it all in that naughty bank?  Ah, well, Madame John, it matters little.  No, I shall not tell ’Tite Poulette.  Adieu.”

And another time:—­“If I will let you tell me something?  With pleasure, Madame John.  No, and not tell anybody, Madame John.  No, Madame, not even ’Tite Poulette.  What?”—­a long whistle—­“is that pos-si-ble?—­and Monsieur John knew it?—­encouraged it?—­eh, well, eh, well!—­But—­can I believe you, Madame John?  Oh! you have Monsieur John’s sworn statement.  Ah! very good, truly, but—­you say you have it; but where is it?  Ah! to-morrow!” a sceptical shrug.  “Pardon me, Madame John, I think perhaps, perhaps you are telling the truth.

“If I think you did right?  Certainly!  What nature keeps back, accident sometimes gives, Madame John; either is God’s will.  Don’t cry.  ’Stealing from the dead?’ No!  It was giving, yes!  They are thanking you in heaven, Madame John.”