“They took my woman away.  They took her to the ’sylum.”

Foreboding peril, the people nearest the uncouth visitor had drawn away.  Only the stranger held his ground; more than held it, indeed, for he edged almost imperceptibly nearer.  He had noticed a fleck of red on the matted beard, where the lip had been bitten into.  Also he saw that the Professor, whose gaze had so timorously shifted from his, was intent, recognizing danger; intent, and unafraid before the threat.

“She used to cry fer it, my woman.  Cry fer the morpheean like a baby.”  He sagged a step forward.  “She don’t haff to cry no more.  She’s dead.”

Whence had the knife leapt, to gleam so viciously in his hand?  Almost as swiftly as it was drawn, the healer had snatched one of the heavy torch-poles from its socket.  Almost, not quite.  The fury leapt and struck; struck for that shining waistcoat, upon which his regard had concentrated, with an upward lunge, the most surely deadly blow known to the knife-fighter.  Two other movements coincided, to the instant.  From the curtain of cheesecloth the slight form of a boy shot upward, with brandished arms; and the square-built man reached the Hardscrabbler’s jaw with a powerful and accurate swing.  There was a scream of pain, a roar from the crowd, and an answering bellow from the quack in midair, for he had launched his formidable bulk over the rail, to plunge, a crushing weight, upon the would-be murderer, who lay stunned on the grass.  For a moment the avenger ground him, with knees and fists; then was up and back on the platform.  Already the city man had gained the flooring, and was bending above the child.  There was a sprinkle of blood on the bright, rough boards.

“Oh, my God!  Boy-ee!  Has he killed you?”

“No:  he isn’t killed,” said the stranger curtly.  “Keep the people back.  Lift down that torch.”

The Professor wavered on his legs, grasping at the rail for support.

“You are a doctor?” he gasped.

“Yes.”

“Can you save him?  Any money—­”

“Set the torch here.”

“Oh, Boyee, Boyee!” The great, dark man had dropped to his knees, his face a mask of agony.

“Oh, the devil!” said the physician disgustedly.  “You’re no help.  Clear a way there, some of you, so that I can get him to the hotel.”  Then, to the other.  “Keep quiet.  There’s no danger.  Only a flesh wound, but he’s fainted.”

Carefully he swung the small form to his shoulder, and forced a way through the crowd, the little girl, who had followed him to the platform, composedly trotting along in his wake, while the Hardscrabbler, moaning from the pain of two broken ribs, was led away by a constable.  Some distance behind, the itinerant wallowed like a drunken man, muttering brilliant bargain offers of good conduct to Almighty God, if “Boyee” were saved to him.

Once in the little hotel room, the physician went about his business with swift decisiveness, aided by the mite of a girl, who seemed to know by instinct where to be and what to do in the way of handling towels, wash-basin, and the other simple paraphernalia required.  Professor Certain was unceremoniously packed off to the drug store for bandages.  When he returned the patient had recovered consciousness.