The apothecary was drawn into the discussion—­at least he thought he was.  Inexperience is apt to think that Truth will be knocked down and murdered unless she comes to the rescue.  Somehow, Frowenfeld’s really excellent arguments seemed to give out more heat than light.  They were merciless; their principles were not only lofty to dizziness, but precipitous, and their heights unoccupied, and—­to the common sight—­unattainable.  In consequence, they provoked hostility and even resentment.  With the kindest, the most honest, and even the most modest, intentions, he found himself—­to his bewilderment and surprise—­sniffed at by the ungenerous, frowned upon by the impatient, and smiled down by the good-natured in a manner that brought sudden blushes of exasperation to his face, and often made him ashamed to find himself going over these sham battles again in much savageness of spirit, when alone with his books; or, in moments of weakness, casting about for such unworthy weapons as irony and satire.  In the present debate, he had just provoked a sneer that made his blood leap and his friends laugh, when Doctor Keene, suddenly rising and beckoning across the street, exclaimed: 

“Oh!  Agricole!  Agricole! venez ici; we want you.”

A murmur of vexed protest arose from two or three.

“He’s coming,” said the whittler, who had also beckoned.

“Good evening, Citizen Fusilier,” said Doctor Keene.  “Citizen Fusilier, allow me to present my friend, Professor Frowenfeld—­yes, you are a professor—­yes, you are.  He is one of your sort, Citizen Fusilier, a man of thorough scientific education.  I believe on my soul, sir, he knows nearly as much as you do!”

The person who confronted the apothecary was a large, heavily built, but well-molded and vigorous man, of whom one might say that he was adorned with old age.  His brow was dark, and furrowed partly by time and partly by a persistent, ostentatious frown.  His eyes were large, black and bold, and the gray locks above them curled short and harsh like the front of a bull.  His nose was fine and strong, and if there was any deficiency in mouth or chin, it was hidden by a beard that swept down over his broad breast like the beard of a prophet.  In his dress, which was noticeably soiled, the fashions of three decades were hinted at; he seemed to have donned whatever he thought his friends would most have liked him to leave off.

“Professor,” said the old man, extending something like the paw of a lion, and giving Frowenfeld plenty of time to become thoroughly awed, “this is a pleasure as magnificent as unexpected!  A scientific man?—­in Louisiana?” He looked around upon the doctors as upon a graduating class.