“My old studies in alchemy,” observed he, “and my sojourn, for above a year past, among a people well versed in the kindly properties of simples, have made a better physician of me than many that claim the medical degree.  Here, woman!  The child is yours—­she is none of mine—­neither will she recognise my voice or aspect as a father’s.  Administer this draught, therefore, with thine own hand.”

Hester repelled the offered medicine, at the same time gazing with strongly marked apprehension into his face.  “Wouldst thou avenge thyself on the innocent babe?” whispered she.

“Foolish woman!” responded the physician, half coldly, half soothingly.  “What should ail me to harm this misbegotten and miserable babe?  The medicine is potent for good, and were it my child—­yea, mine own, as well as thine!  I could do no better for it.”

As she still hesitated, being, in fact, in no reasonable state of mind, he took the infant in his arms, and himself administered the draught.  It soon proved its efficacy, and redeemed the leech’s pledge.  The moans of the little patient subsided; its convulsive tossings gradually ceased; and in a few moments, as is the custom of young children after relief from pain, it sank into a profound and dewy slumber.  The physician, as he had a fair right to be termed, next bestowed his attention on the mother.  With calm and intent scrutiny, he felt her pulse, looked into her eyes—­a gaze that made her heart shrink and shudder, because so familiar, and yet so strange and cold—­and, finally, satisfied with his investigation, proceeded to mingle another draught.

“I know not Lethe nor Nepenthe,” remarked he; “but I have learned many new secrets in the wilderness, and here is one of them—­a recipe that an Indian taught me, in requital of some lessons of my own, that were as old as Paracelsus.  Drink it!  It may be less soothing than a sinless conscience.  That I cannot give thee.  But it will calm the swell and heaving of thy passion, like oil thrown on the waves of a tempestuous sea.”

He presented the cup to Hester, who received it with a slow, earnest look into his face; not precisely a look of fear, yet full of doubt and questioning as to what his purposes might be.  She looked also at her slumbering child.

“I have thought of death,” said she—­“have wished for it—­would even have prayed for it, were it fit that such as I should pray for anything.  Yet, if death be in this cup, I bid thee think again, ere thou beholdest me quaff it.  See! it is even now at my lips.”

“Drink, then,” replied he, still with the same cold composure.  “Dost thou know me so little, Hester Prynne?  Are my purposes wont to be so shallow?  Even if I imagine a scheme of vengeance, what could I do better for my object than to let thee live—­than to give thee medicines against all harm and peril of life—­so that this burning shame may still blaze upon thy bosom?”