"

"But if he isn't a Catholic?"

"One must pray for sinners," said the Curb, after a silence.

This time the surgeon laid a hand on the shoulder of his brother
affectionately. "Upon my soul, dear Prosper, you almost persuade me to
be reactionary and mediaeval."

The Curb turned half uneasily towards Jo, who was following at a little
distance. This seemed hardly the sort of thing for him to hear.

"You had better return now, Jo," he said.

"As you wish, M'sieu'," Jo answered, then looked inquiringly at the
surgeon.

"In about five days, Portugais. Have you a steady hand and a quick eye?"

Jo spread out his hands in deprecation, and turned to the Curb, as
though for him to answer.

"Jo is something of a physician and surgeon too, Marcel. He has a gift.
He has cured many in the parish with his herbs and tinctures, and he has
set legs and arms successfully."

The surgeon eyed Jo humorously, but kindly. "He is probably as good a
doctor as some of us. Medicine is a gift, surgery is a gift and an art.
You shall hear from me, Portugais." He looked again keenly at Jo. "You
have not given him 'herbs and tinctures'?"

"Nothing, M'sieu'."

"Very sensible. Good-day, Portugais."

"Good-day, my son," said the priest, and raised his fingers in
benediction, as Jo turned and quickly retraced his steps.

"Why did you ask him if he had given the poor man any herbs or
tinctures, Marcel?" said the priest.

"Because those quack tinctures have whiskey in them."

"What do you mean?"

"Whiskey in any form would be bad for him," the surgeon answered
evasively.

But to himself he kept saying: "The man was a drunkard--he was a
drunkard."

CHAPTER XI. THE RAISING OF THE CURTAIN

M. Marcel Loisel did his work with a masterly precision, with the aid
of his brother and Portugais. The man under the instruments, not wholly
insensible, groaned once or twice. Once or twice, too, his eyes opened
with a dumb hunted look, then closed as with an irresistible weariness.
When the work was over, and every stain or sign of surgery removed,
sleep came down on the bed--a deep and saturating sleep, which seemed
to fill the room with peace. For hours the surgeon sat beside the couch,
now and again feeling the pulse, wetting the hot lips, touching the
forehead with his palm. At last, with a look of satisfaction, he came
forward to where Jo and the Cure sat beside the fire.

"It is all right," he said. "Let him sleep as long as he will