Now he was at the foot of the platform, and now in the gaunt, powerful frame I recognised my daughter’s suitor, Ernest Merchison, and knew that something dreadful was at hand, what I could not guess.

There was still time—­I might have pretended to be ill, but my brain was so weary with work and sorrow, and so occupied, what was left of it, in trying to fathom Merchison’s meaning, that I let the precious moment slip.  At length he was standing close by me, and to me his face was like the face of an avenging angel, and his eyes shone like that angel’s sword.

“I wish to ask you, sir,” he said again, “whether or no you believe that vaccination is a prophylactic against smallpox.”

Once more there were opportunities of escape.  I might for instance have asked for a definition of vaccination, of prophylactics and of smallpox, and thus have argued till the audience grew weary.  But some God of vengeance fought upon his side, the hand of doom was over me, and a power I could not resist dragged the answer from my lips.

“I think, sir,” I replied, “that, as the chairman has told you, the whole of my public record is an answer to your question.  I have often expressed my views upon this matter; I see no reason to change them.”

Ernest Merchison turned to the audience.

“Men of Dunchester,” he said in such trumpet-like and thrilling tones that every face of the multitude gathered there was turned upon him, “Dr. Therne in answer to my questions refers to his well-known views, and says that he has found no reason to change them.  His views are that vaccination is useless and even mischievous, and by preaching them he has prevented thousands from being vaccinated.  Now I ask him to illustrate his faith by baring his left arm before you all.”

What followed?  I know not.  From the audience went up a great gasp mingled with cries of “yes” and “shame” and “show him.”  My supporters on the platform murmured in indignation, and I, round whom the whole earth seemed to rush, by an effort recovering my self-control, rose and said:—­

“I am here to answer any question, but I ask you to protect me from insult.”

Again the tumult and confusion swelled, but through it all, calm as death, inexorable as fate, Ernest Merchison stood at my side.  When it had died down, he said:—­

“I repeat my challenge.  There is smallpox in this city—­people are lying dead of it—­and many have protected themselves by vaccination:  let Dr. Therne prove that he has not done this also by baring his left arm before you all.”

The chairman looked at my face and his jaw dropped.  “I declare this meeting closed,” he said, and I turned to hurry from the platform, whereat there went up a shout of “No, no.”  It sank to a sudden silence, and again the man with the face of fate spoke.

“Murderer of your own child, I reveal that which you hide!”