, my friend, what
did the Doctor say? 'Not so badly off!' And Heinrich died. Oh yes! I
understand the doctors."

The little lawyer wrapped himself in his shawl. He was freezing.

"He is sucking the soul out of his body," continued Michael Petroff
with an important air. "He understands his business, Engelhardt does.
How did he manage with Schwindt, the attendant? The very same way,
don't you see!"

And Michael Petroff left the room, rubbing his hands cheerfully. He was
interested in everything that went on around him, in everything that he
_saw through_. There was news--! In the best of spirits, he sat down at
his writing table to give the final touches to his article: "Doctor
Maerz arrested."

That very night, toward three o'clock, the "Rajah" died. It was a warm,
still night and the moonlight was so bright that one could read out of
doors. The patients were restless, they cleared their throats, walked
up and down and talked together. But once in a while they would all be
silent: that was when Engelhardt began to scream out. "I can't bear it
any longer!" And then he would declaim aloud the petitions that kings
and princes addressed to him on their knees.

The little lawyer had not dared to go to bed. He sat fully dressed on
the sofa, with all his blankets wrapped around him. And yet he was so
cold that his teeth chattered. Whenever Engelhardt began to cry out, he
moved his lips in prayer and crossed himself.

Michael Petroff, on the contrary, had gone to bed with complete
unconcern. He lay, with his arms under his head, and pondered over a
suitable title for his next paper. For this time he would take the
Doctor by surprise, he would catch him--just wait and see! What was the
sense of a title like the _Non-Partisan_, if you please? Could one
overcome this case-hardened Doctor with that? What? Oh, no, no.
Surely not. The title must smell of fire and brimstone. It must
be like the stroke of a sword, like the muzzle of a gun aimed at
the Doctor--for Dr. Maerz must be startled when he reads the title! And
after much reflection, Michael Petroff decided that this time he would
call his paper _The Sword of the Archangel_. He could plainly see this
Archangel sweeping obliquely forward, with terrible fluttering garments
and an appalling and angry mien, holding his sword with both hands
somewhat backward above his head. And this sword, that was as sharp as
a razor and very broad at the back, slit the firmament open and a