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“I made the patient swallow, with great difficulty, and after many
efforts, the dose that I desired to give. As I intended to repeat it
after a while, and as it was necessary to watch its influence, I then
sat down by the side of the bed. There was a timid and suppressed
woman in attendance (wife of the man down-stairs), who had
retreated into a corner. The house was damp and decayed,
indifferently furnished-evidently, recently occupied and
temporarily used. Some thick old hangings had been nailed up
before the windows, to deaden the sound of the shrieks. They
continued to be uttered in their regular succession, with the cry,
‘My husband, my father, and my brother!’ the counting up to
twelve, and ‘Hush!’ The frenzy was so violent, that I had not
unfastened the bandages restraining the arms; but, I had looked to
them, to see that they were not painful. The only spark of
encouragement in the case, was, that my hand upon the sufferer’s
breast had this much soothing influence, that for minutes at a time
it tranquillised the figure.

It had no effect upon the cries; no pendulum could be more

“For the reason that my hand had this effect (I assume), I had sat
by the side of the bed for half an hour, with the two brothers
looking on, before the elder said: “’There is another patient.’ “I
was startled, and asked, ‘Is it a pressing case?’ “’You had better
see,’ he carelessly answered; and took up a light. * * * * “The other
patient lay in a back room across a second staircase, which was a
species of loft over a stable. There was a low plastered ceiling to a
part of it; the rest was open, to the ridge of the tiled roof, and there
were beams across. Hay and straw were stored in that portion of
the place, fagots for firing, and a heap of apples in sand. I had to
pass through that part, to get at the other. My memory is
circumstantial and unshaken. I try it with these details, and I see
them all, in this my cell in the Bastille, near the close of the tenth
year of my captivity, as I saw them all that night.

“On some hay on the ground, with a cushion thrown under his
head, lay a handsome peasant boy-a boy of not more than
seventeen at the most. He lay on his back, with his teeth set, his
right hand clenched on his breast, and his glaring eyes looking
straight upward. I could not see where his wound was, as I
kneeled on one knee over him; but, I could see that he was dying of
a wound from a sharp point.

“’I am a doctor, my poor fellow,’ said I. ‘Let me examine it.’ “’I do
not want it examined,’ he answered; ‘let it be.’ “It was under his
hand, and I soothed him to let me move his hand away. The
wound was a sword-thrust, received from twenty to twenty-four
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