“My only child is sick with the croup, and requires immediate attention.”

“I ought to be able to handle a case of the croup,” answered Dr. Evans, “at least in the first stages.  I’ll go with you, and stay by the child, and if the case is beyond me, I may keep it in check until another physician comes.”

He stepped back into another room, and returning immediately with his hat, accompanied Carteret homeward.  The riot had subsided; even the glow from the smouldering hospital was no longer visible.  It seemed that the city, appalled at the tragedy, had suddenly awakened to a sense of its own crime.  Here and there a dark face, emerging cautiously from some hiding-place, peered from behind fence or tree, but shrank hastily away at the sight of a white face.  The negroes of Wellington, with the exception of Josh Green and his party, had not behaved bravely on this critical day in their history; but those who had fought were dead, to the last man; those who had sought safety in flight or concealment were alive to tell the tale.

“We pass right by Dr. Thompson’s,” said Dr. Evans.  “If you haven’t spoken to him, it might be well to call him for consultation, in case the child should be very bad.”

“Go on ahead,” said Carteret, “and I’ll get him.”

Evans hastened on, while Carteret sounded the old-fashioned knocker upon the doctor’s door.  A gray-haired negro servant, clad in a dress suit and wearing a white tie, came to the door.

“De doctuh, suh,” he replied politely to Carteret’s question, “has gone ter ampitate de ahm er a gent’eman who got one er his bones smashed wid a pistol bullet in de—­fightin’ dis atternoon, suh.  He’s jes’ gone, suh, an’ lef’ wo’d dat he’d be gone a’ hour er mo’, suh.”

Carteret hastened homeward.  He could think of no other available physician.  Perhaps no other would be needed, but if so, he could find out from Evans whom it was best to call.

When he reached the child’s room, the young doctor was bending anxiously over the little frame.  The little lips had become livid, the little nails, lying against the white sheet, were blue.  The child’s efforts to breathe were most distressing, and each gasp cut the father like a knife.  Mrs. Carteret was weeping hysterically.  “How is he, doctor?” asked the major.

“He is very low,” replied the young man.  “Nothing short of tracheotomy—­an operation to open the windpipe—­will relieve him.  Without it, in half or three quarters of an hour he will be unable to breathe.  It is a delicate operation, a mistake in which would be as fatal as the disease.  I have neither the knowledge nor the experience to attempt it, and your child’s life is too valuable for a student to practice upon.  Neither have I the instruments here.”

“What shall we do?” demanded Carteret.  “We have called all the best doctors, and none are available.”

The young doctor’s brow was wrinkled with thought.  He knew a doctor who could perform the operation.  He had heard, also, of a certain event at Carteret’s house some months before, when an unwelcome physician had been excluded from a consultation,—­but it was the last chance.