e was haggard and his knees trembled from
exhaustion. He did the work of fifty men--a hundred men.

The seeds of the plague had been sown. Towards morning the physician
retired to his room, stricken down. Baker administered to his needs,
and discovered a surprising knowledge of the malady and its treatment.
A few of those who had scattered about in the surrounding hills were
taken down and brought to the house moaning with fear and pain. Baker
treated them all. Mr. Clayton and a few other stout hearts provided him
with whatever he ordered, and assisted in watching and in administering
the simple remedies under his direction. These were such as the
resources of the hotel permitted,--warm blankets, hot brandy, with
water and sugar, or pepper and salt in hot water, heated bricks at the
feet, and rubbing the body with spirits of camphor. Many recovered,
others grew worse; the physician was saved.

At sunrise, while Baker was working vigorously on a patient, he
suddenly straightened himself, looked around somewhat anxiously, and
reeled backward to the wall. The strong man had collapsed at last.
Leaning against the partition, and spreading out his arms against it to
keep from falling, he worked his way a few feet to the door, and when
he turned to go out his hand slipped on the door-facing and he fell
heavily upon his face in the passage. He lay still for a moment, and
then crawled slowly to the end of the passage and lay down. He had not
said a word nor uttered a groan. It was there, silent, alone, and
uncomplaining, that Mr. Clayton found this last victim of the plague
waiting patiently for death. Others were hastily summoned. They put him
upon a bed, and were going to undress him and treat him, but he firmly
stopped them with uplifted hand, and his sunken eyes and anxious face
implored more eloquently than his words, when he said:

"No, no! Now, let me tell you: Go an' take care of 'em."

Mr. Clayton sent them away, he alone remaining.

"Here, Baker; take this," he gently urged.

But the man from Georgia knew better. "No, no," he said; "it won't do
no good." His speech was faint and labored. "I'll tell you: I'm struck
too hard. It won't do no good. I'm so tired.... I'll go quick ...
'cause I'm ... so tired."

His extreme exhaustion made him an easy prey. Death sat upon his face,
and was reflected from his hollow, suffering, mournful eyes. In an hour
they were dimmer; then he became cold and purple. In another hour h