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.  As it reached the throat there was a spasmodic contraction that gave Maitre Laurent an instant of intense anxiety—­but it was only momentary, and the remainder of the dose was swallowed easily and with almost instantaneous effect.  A slight tinge of colour showed itself in the pallid cheeks, the eyelids trembled and half unclosed, and the hand that had lain inert and motionless upon the counterpane stirred a little.  Then the young duke heaved a deep sigh, and opening his eyes looked vacantly in about him, like one awakening from a dream, or returning from those mysterious regions whither the soul takes flight when unconsciousness holds this mortal frame enthralled.  Only a glance, and the long eyelashes fell again upon the pale cheeks—­but a wonderful change had passed over the countenance.

“I staked everything on that move,” said Maitre Laurent to himself, with a long breath of relief, “and I have won.  It was either kill or cure—­and it has not killed him.  All glory be to Aesculapius, Hygeia, and Hippocrates!”

At this moment a hand noiselessly put aside the hangings over the door, and the venerable head of the prince appeared—­looking ten years older for the agony and dread of the terrible night just passed.

“How is he, Maitre Laurent?” he breathed, in broken, scarcely audible tones.

The surgeon put his finger to his lips, and with the other hand pointed to the young duke’s face-still raised a little on the pillows, and no longer wearing its death-like look; then, with the light step habitual with those who are much about the sick, he went over to the prince, still standing on the threshold, and drawing him gently outside and away from the door, said in a low voice, “Your highness can see that the patient’s condition, so far from growing worse, has decidedly improved.  Certainly he is not out of danger yet—­his state is very critical—­but unless some new and totally unforeseen complication should arise, which I shall use every effort to prevent, I think that we can pull him through, and that he will be able to enjoy life again as if he had never been hurt.”

The prince’s care-worn face brightened and his fine eyes flashed at these hopeful words; he stepped forward to enter the sick-room, but Maitre Laurent respectfully opposed his doing so.