come in here,--jamais! ... Carmen, did you know
Adele,--Adele Florane? So like her,--so like,--God only knows how
like! ... Perhaps I think I know;--but I do not--do not know justly,
fully--how like! ... Si! si!--es el vomito!--yo lo conozco, Carmen! ...
She must not die twice ... I died twice ... I am going to die again.
She only once. Till the heavens be no more she will not rise ... Moi,
au contraire, il faut que je me leve toujours! They need me so
much;--the slate is always full; the bell will never stop. They will
ring that bell for me when I am dead ... So will I rise
again!--resurgam! ... How could I save him?--could not save myself. It
was a bad case,--at seventy years! ... There! Qui ca?" ...

He saw Laroussel again,--reaching out a hand to him through a whirl of
red smoke. He tried to grasp it, and could not ... "N'importe, mon
ami," said Laroussel,--"tu vas la voir bientot." Who was he to see
soon?--"qui done, Laroussel?" But Laroussel did not answer. Through
the red mist he seemed to smile;--then passed.

For some hours Carmen had trusted she could save her
patient,--desperate as the case appeared to be. His was one of those
rapid and violent attacks, such as often despatch their victims in a
single day. In the Cuban hospitals she had seen many and many terrible
examples: strong young men,--soldiers fresh from Spain,--carried
panting to the fever wards at sunrise; carried to the cemeteries at
sunset. Even troopers riddled with revolutionary bullets had lingered
longer ... Still, she had believed she might save Julien's life: the
burning forehead once began to bead, the burning hands grew moist.

But now the wind was moaning;--the air had become lighter, thinner,
cooler. A stone was gathering in the east; and to the fever-stricken
man the change meant death ... Impossible to bring the priest of the
Caminada now; and there was no other within a day's sail. She could
only pray; she had lost all hope in her own power to save.

Still the sick man raved; but he talked to himself at longer intervals,
and with longer pauses between his words;--his voice was growing more
feeble, his speech more incoherent. His thought vacillated and
distorted, like flame in a wind.

Weirdly the past became confounded with the present; impressions of
sight and of sound interlinked in fastastic affinity,--the face of
Chita Viosca, the murmur of the rising storm. Then flickers of
spectral lightning passed through