“What is it?” she said.  “What is the matter, Lindy?”

Madame’s touch seemed to steady her.

“Miss Sally,” she moaned, “Miss Sally done got de yaller fever.”

There was a moment’s silence, for we were both too appalled by the news to speak.

“Lindy, are you sure?” said the Vicomtesse.

“Yass’m, yass’m,” Lindy sobbed, “I reckon I’se done seed ’nuf of it, Mistis.”  And she went into a hysterical fit of weeping.

The Vicomtesse turned to her own frightened servants in the doorway, bade Andre in French to run for Dr. Perrin, and herself closed the battened doors.  There was a moment when her face as I saw it was graven on my memory, reflecting a knowledge of the evils of this world, a spirit above and untouched by them, a power to accept what life may bring with no outward sign of pleasure or dismay.  Doubtless thus she had made King and Cardinal laugh, doubtless thus, ministering to those who crossed her path, she had met her own calamities.  Strangest of all was the effect she had upon Lindy, for the girl ceased crying as she watched her.

Madame la Vicomtesse turned to me.

“You must go at once,” she said.  “When you get to Madame Gravois’s, write to Mr. Temple.  I will send Andre to you there.”

She started for the bedroom door, Lindy making way for her.  I scarcely knew what I did as I sprang forward and took the Vicomtesse by the arm.

“Where are you going?” I cried.  “You cannot go in there!  You cannot go in there!”

It did not seem strange that she turned to me without anger, that she did not seek to release her arm.  It did not seem strange that her look had in it a gentleness as she spoke.

“I must,” she said.

“I cannot let you risk your life,” I cried, wholly forgetting myself; “there are others who will do this.”

“Others?” she said.

“I will go.  I—­I have nursed people before this.  And there is Lindy.”

A smile quivered on her lips,—­or was it a smile?

“You will do as I say and go to Madame Gravois’s—­at once,” she murmured, striving for the first time to free herself.

“If you stay, I stay,” I answered; “and if you die, I die.”

She looked up into my eyes for a fleeting instant.

“Write to Mr. Temple,” she said.

Dazed, I watched her open the bedroom doors, motion to Lindy to pass through, and then she had closed them again and I was alone in the darkened parlor.

The throbbing in my head was gone, and a great clearness had come with a great fear.  I stood, I know not how long, listening to the groans that came through the wall, for Mrs. Temple was in agony.  At intervals I heard Helene’s voice, and then the groans seemed to stop.  Ten times I went to the bedroom door, and as many times drew away again, my heart leaping within me at the peril which she faced.  If I had had the right, I believe I would have carried her away by force.