There was a stir among the kindred.  Surely this was a turn for the better.  The doctor ought to be brought back.  A little while ago he was not nearly so strong.  “Ask Honore if the doctor should not come.”  But Honore shook his head.  The old man began again.

“Honore!  Where is Honore?  Stand by me, here, Honore; and sister?—­on this other side.  My eyes are very poor to-day.  Why do I perspire so?  Give me a drink.  You see—­I am better now; I have ceased—­to throw up blood.  Nay, let me talk.”  He sighed, closed his eyes, and opened them again suddenly.  “Oh, Honore, you and the Yankees—­you and—­all—­going wrong—­education—­masses—­weaken—­caste—­indiscr’—­quarrels settl’—­by affidav’—­Oh!  Honore.”

“If he would only forget,” said one, in an agonized whisper, “that philippique generale!”

Aurora whispered earnestly and tearfully to Madame Grandissime.  Surely they were not going to let him go thus!  A priest could at least do no harm.  But when the proposition was made to him by his sister, he said: 

“No;—­no priest.  You have my will, Honore,—­in your iron box.  Professor Frowenfeld,”—­he changed his speech to English,—­“I have written you an article on—­” his words died on his lips.

“Joseph, son, I do not see you.  Beware, my son, of the doctrine of equal rights—­a bottomless iniquity.  Master and man—­arch and pier—­arch above—­pier below.”  He tried to suit the gesture to the words, but both hands and feet were growing uncontrollably restless.

“Society, Professor,”—­he addressed himself to a weeping girl,—­“society has pyramids to build which make menials a necessity, and Nature furnishes the menials all in dark uniform.  She—­I cannot tell you—­you will find—­all in the Philippique Generale.  Ah!  Honore, is it—­”

He suddenly ceased.

“I have lost my glasses.”

Beads of sweat stood out upon his face.  He grew frightfully pale.  There was a general dismayed haste, and they gave him a stimulant.

“Brother,” said the sister, tenderly.

He did not notice her.

“Agamemnon!  Go and tell Jean-Baptiste—­” his eyes drooped and flashed again wildly.

“I am here, Agricole,” said the voice of Jean-Baptiste, close beside the bed.

“I told you to let—­that negress—­”

“Yes, we have let her go.  We have let all of them go.”

“All of them,” echoed the dying man, feebly, with wandering eyes.  Suddenly he brightened again and tossed his arms.  “Why, there you were wrong, Jean-Baptiste; the community must be protected.”  His voice sank to a murmur.  “He would not take off—­’you must remem’—­” He was silent.  “You must remem’—­those people are—­are not—­white people.”  He ceased a moment.  “Where am I going?” He began evidently to look, or try to look, for some person; but they could not divine his wish until, with piteous feebleness, he called: 

“Aurore De Grapion!”