iron.

"I am poisoned!" muttered Rodin, and sinking back, he fell into the arms
of Father d'Aigrigny.

Notwithstanding his alarm, the cardinal had time to whisper to the
latter: "He thinks himself poisoned. He must therefore be plotting
something very dangerous."

The door of the room opened. It was Dr. Baleinier.

"Oh, doctor!" cried the princess, as she ran pale and frightened towards
him; "Father Rodin has been suddenly attacked with terrible convulsions.
Quick! quick!"

"Convulsions? oh! it will be nothing, madame," said the doctor, throwing
down his hat upon a chair, and hastily approaching the group which
surrounded the sick man.

"Here is the doctor!" cried the princess. All stepped aside, except
Father d'Aigrigny, who continued to support Rodin, leaning against a
chair.

"Heavens! what symptoms!" cried Dr. Baleinier, examining with growing
terror the countenance of Rodin, which from green was turning blue.

"What is it?" asked all the spectators, with one voice.

"What is it?" repeated the doctor, drawing back as if he had trodden
upon a serpent. "It is the cholera! and contagious!"

On this frightful, magic word, Father d'Aigrigny abandoned his hold of
Rodin, who rolled upon the floor.

"He is lost!" cried Dr. Baleinier. "But I will run to fetch the means
for a last effort." And he rushed towards the door.

The Princess de Saint-Dizier, Father d'Aigrigny, the bishop, and the
cardinal followed in terror the flight of Dr. Baleinier. They all
pressed to the door, which, in their consternation, they could not
open. It opened at last but from without--and Gabriel appeared upon
the threshold. Gabriel, the type of the true priest, the holy, the
evangelical minister, to whom we can never pay enough of respect and
ardent sympathy, and tender admiration. His angelic countenance, in its
mild serenity, offered a striking contrast of these faces, all disturbed
and contracted with terror.

The young priest was nearly thrown down by the fugitives, who rushed
through the now open doorway, exclaiming: "Do not go in! he is dying of
the cholera. Fly!"

On these words, pushing back the bishop, who, being the last, was
trying to force a passage, Gabriel ran towards Rodin, while the prelate
succeeded in making his escape. Rodin, stretched upon the carpet, his
limbs twisted with fearful cramps, was writhing in the extremity
of pain. The violence of his fall had, no doubt, roused him to
consciousness, for he moaned,