His breast swelled.  His gray eyes seemed literally to send forth smoke; they suggested some noiseless deadly weapon of war.  He exclaimed aloud:  “My God! what a power to lie in the hands of one man!  I stand here the arbiter of five destinies.  It is for me to say whether four people shall be happy or wretched, saved or ruined.  I might say, with Nero, ’I am God!’” He laughed.  “I am famed for my power to save where others have failed.  I am famed in the comic weeklies for having ruined the business of more undertakers than any physician of my day.  That has been my role, my professional pride.  I have never felt so proud as now.”

The woman, who had been moving restlessly for some time, twitched suddenly and uncontrollably.  She opened her eyes.

“Give it to me—­quick!” she demanded.  Her voice, always querulous, was raucous; her eyes were wild.

“No,” he said, deliberately, “you will have no more morphine; not a drop.”

She stared at him incredulously, then laughed.

“Stop joking,” she said, roughly.  “Give it to me—­quick—­quick!  I am very weak.”

“No,” he said.

Then, as he continued to hold her eyes, her own gradually expanded with terror.  She raised herself on one arm.

“You mean that?” she asked.

“Yes.”

He watched her critically.  She would be interesting.

“You are going to cure me with drastic measures, since others have failed?”

“Possibly.”

Her face contracted with hatred.  She had been a rather clever woman, and she believed that he was going to experiment with her.  But she had also been a strong-willed woman and used to command since babyhood.

“Give me that morphine,” she said, imperiously.  “If you don’t I’ll be dead before morning.”

He stood imperturbable.  She sprang from the bed and flung herself upon him, strong with anger and apprehension.

“Give it to me!” she screamed.  “Give it to me!” And she strove to bite him.

He caught her by the shoulder and held her at arm’s-length.  She writhed and struggled and cursed.  Her oaths might have been learned in the gutter.  She kicked at him and strove to reach him with her nails, clawing the air.  She looked like a witch on a broomstick.

“What an exquisite bride she was!” he thought.  “And what columns of rubbish have been printed about her and her entertainments!”

The woman was shrieking and struggling.

“Give it to me!  You brute!  You fiend!  I always hated you!  Give it to me!  I am dying!  I am dying!  Help!  Help!” But the walls were padded, and she knew it.

He permitted her to fling herself upon him, easily brushing aside her jumping fingers and snapping teeth.  He knew that her agony was frightful.  Her body was a net-work of hungry nerves.  The diseased pulp of her brain had ejected every thought but one.  She squirmed like an old autumn leaf about to fall.  Her ugly face became tragic.  The words shot from her dry contracted throat:  “Give me the morphine!  Give me the morphine!”