"Madame," said the girl, "His Excellency has the black fever."

"What of that?" she returned irritably.

"I thought maybe your herbs could cure him. You've cured others, and
this is an awful sickness. Ah, won't you save him, if you can?"

"What are you to him, pale-face?" she said, her eyes peering into the
pot.

"Nothing more to him than you are, madame," the girl answered wearily.

"I'll cure because I want, not because you ask me, pretty brat."

Elise's heart gave a leap: these very herbs were for Valmond! The old
woman had travelled far to get the medicaments immediately she had heard
of Valmond's illness. Night and day she had trudged, and she was more
brown and weather-beaten than ever.

"The black fever! the black fever!" cried the old woman. "I know it
well. It's most like a plague. I know it. But I know the cure-ha, ha!
Come along now, feather-legs, what are you staring there for? Hold that
jug while I pour the darling liquor in. Ha, ha! Crazy Joan hasn't lived
for nothing. They have to come to her; the great folks have to come to
her!"

So she meandered on, filling the jug. Later, in the warm dusk, they
travelled up to Dalgrothe Mountain, and came to Valmond's tent. By the
couch knelt Parpon, watching the laboured breathing of the sick man.