She arrived at the bedside before he did and stood there, watching him walk slowly into the room, her eyes big and apprehensive. Bruce lay now in a coma, though he was still mumbling and moving restlessly about. Dr. Barton stopped short of the bed by several feet, and he held a handkerchief to his nose. For a moment he looked at him without speaking.

“Well?” demanded Amber. “How is he?”

The doctor gave a faint shrug. “Madame, you ask me to answer the impossible. I do not know. Is there a bubo?”

“Yes. It started to rise last night.”

She turned back the quilts so that he could see the lump in Bruce’s groin, enlarged now to the size of a half-submerged tennis-ball; the skin over it looked stretched and red and shining.

“Does it seem to cause him much pain?”

“I touched it once, by accident, and he gave a terrible yell.”

“The rising of the plague-boil is the most painful stage of the disease. But unless there is one they seldom live.”

“Then he will live, Doctor? He’ll get well?” Her eyes glistened eagerly.

“Madame, I can promise you nothing. I don’t know. No one knows. We must simply admit that we don’t understand it—we’re helpless. Sometimes they die in an hour—sometimes it takes days. Sometimes it’s easy, without a convulsion, other times they go in a screaming agony. The strong and healthy are as vulnerable as the frail and weak. What have you been giving him to eat?”

“Nothing. He refuses everything I try to feed him. And he vomits so often it wouldn’t do any good.” “Nevertheless, he must eat. Force it down him someway, and feed him often—every three or four hours. Give him eggs and meat-broth and wine-caudles. And you must keep him as hot as possible. Wrap him in all the warm blankets you have and don’t let him throw them off. Heat some bricks and pack them at his feet. If you have some stone water-bottles use those. Start a good fire and don’t let it go out. He must be induced to sweat as profusely as possible. And make a poultice for the boil—you can use vinegar and honey and figs if you have them and some brown bread-crumbs and plenty of mustard. If he throws it off tie it on someway, and keep it there. Unless the boil can be brought to break and run he’ll have but little chance of recovery. Give him a strong emetic—antimony in white wine will do, or whatever you may have on hand, and a clyster. That’s all I can tell you. And you, madame—how are you?”

“I feel well enough, except that I’m tired. I had to stay up most of the night.”

“I’ll report the case to the parish and a nurse will be sent to help you. To protect yourself I’d advise you to steep some bay-leaves or juniper in vinegar and breathe the fumes several times a day.” He turned and started to go and Amber, though keeping an eye on Bruce, walked along with him. “And by the way, madame, you’d better hide whatever valuables you may have in the house before the nurse arrives.”

“Good Lord! What kind of a nurse are you sending?”

“The parish has to take whoever volunteers—we have too few already—and though some of them are honest enough, the truth of it is that most of them are not.” He had reached the anteroom now and just before he started down the steps he said: “If the plague-spots appear—you may as well send for the sexton to ring the bell. No one can help them after that. I’ll stop again tomorrow.” Even as he spoke they heard the bells begin to toll, somewhere in the distance, two tenor notes struck for a woman. “It’s the vengeance of God upon us for our sins. Well—good-day, madame.”

Amber went back and set immediately about her new tasks, for tired as she was she was glad to have work to do. It helped her to keep from thinking, and each thing that she did for him gave her a sense of satisfaction and accomplishment.

She poured some of the water which she kept hot in the kitchen into several stone bottles, wrapped them in towels and packed them all about him, and she brought out half-a-dozen more blankets from the nursery. He protested, pushing them down again and again, but each time, patiently, she covered him and went on with what she had been doing. The sweat began to run off his face in rivers, and the sheets beneath him were soaked and yellow. The fire roared and she heaped it with coals, making the room so hot that though she took off her petticoat, pushed her sleeves high and opened her gown, the silk clung to her ribs and there were wet spots beneath her breasts and in her arm-pits. She pulled the heavy hair up off her neck and skewered it on top of her head, and she mopped at her face and chest with a handkerchief.

She poured the emetic into his mouth and then, without waiting for it to take effect, administered the clyster. This was a difficult and painful process, but Amber was beyond either disgust or fastidiousness—she did what was necessary as well as she could, and without thinking about it. Afterwards she cleaned up the mess it had made, washed her hands, and went out to the kitchen to prepare the mustard-plaster and to make a sack-posset of hot milk, sugar and spices and white wine.

He made no protest when she laid the poultice on the boil and did not seem to know that it was there. Relieved—for she had been afraid that it might hurt him—she went back to finish making the posset.

She tasted the curdled drink, sprinkled on just a bit more cinnamon, and then tasted again. It was good. She poured it into the double-spouted posset pot and started for the bedroom. At that moment she heard a yell, a strange terrible sound that sent a quivering chill along her spine. Then there was a thud and a loud crash.

She slammed the pewter pot onto the sideboard and ran toward the bedroom. He was half-crouched on the floor, just getting to his feet—he had apparently fallen as he climbed out of bed, and overturned the table beside it. “Bruce!” she screamed at him, but he was not conscious of her or of what he was doing. Slowly he lunged to his feet and turned to push open the casement window which she had left unlocked. She rushed on toward him, grabbing up a candlestick from a chest-of-drawers and just as he put one foot on the recessed sill she grabbed his arm and swung the heavy stick, striking him hard across the base of the skull. Vaguely she realized that there were people below in the street, looking up, and she heard a woman scream.

He started to fall, sagging slowly, and she flung her arms about him, trying desperately to push him back onto the bed. But he was too heavy for her and in spite of her efforts slid slowly toward the floor. Knowing that she would never be able to lift him from there onto the high bed, she gave a sudden violent shove and he fell sideways, sprawled half across it; she stumbled and pitched down onto him. Swiftly she was on her feet again, and she jerked a quilt from the bed to fling over him, for he was naked and streaming sweat. Pulling and hauling, swearing with fright and rage, at last she got him back into the bed. She collapsed then into a chair beside it, completely exhausted, her muscles quivering and jumping resentfully.

Then, as she looked at him, she saw that a dark streak of blood was beginning to make a crooked path down his neck, and she got wearily to her feet again. With cotton and cold water she sponged it off, and wrapped a clean linen band—torn from a towel—around his head.

“Pox on that nurse!” she thought furiously. “Why doesn’t she get here?” She replaced the mustard-plaster and filled the hot-water bottles again, for they had begun to cool.

On her way back to the kitchen she stopped and took a long drink of the posset. It was supposed to be highly invigorating and, at least for a time, did make her feel stronger. Putting the pot down she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. If only that pestilent wench would arrive! she thought. Maybe I could sleep then. I’ll die if I don’t get some sleep. Exhaustion came over her in waves and for several minutes she would think she could not make another move, or take another step. And then it would pass, leaving her no less tired but able to do what had to be done.

It was several minutes before Bruce regained consciousness and then he was even more restless and violent. He tossed and threshed about, throwing off the blankets; his voice was loud and angry, and though she could not understand very much of what he said she knew that he swore continuously. She was not able to pour much of the posset down him before he gave a sudden swing of his arm that sent the pot clattering violently to the floor.

When at last he grew quieter she took a pen and paper and sat down at a table close by the bed to write a letter to Nan. It was difficult, for she wanted to tell the girl the truth without scaring her, and she worked over it for half an hour, scrawling out the words laboriously, making several drafts before she had one that suited her. She blew it dry and dripped on a great blob of gold sealing-wax. Then, picking up a shilling from the table, she went to the window and opened it, thinking that if she could find some youngster passing in the street below she could give him the coin to take it to the post-office for her. The price of postage would be paid upon delivery.

The sky was turning pale blue and a star or two had come out. There were not very many people abroad now, but as Amber leaned out she saw a boy, going down the middle of the street, hold his nose as he passed her house.

She looked down and saw a guard there, lounging against the wall with his halberd on his shoulder. That meant the red cross had been marked on her door too and they were shut in together for forty days and nights, or until both of them were dead. A few days before she would have been terrified; now she accepted it almost with indifference.