. . .
But now! . . .
Pah! How selfish he was, to be thinking of himself when Eugen lay
dying. Yet - Nella!
The door opened, and a man entered, who was obviously the
doctor. A few curt questions, and he had grasped the essentials of
the case. 'Oblige me by ringing the bell, Prince. I shall want some
hot water, and an able-bodied man and a nurse.'
'Who wants a nurse?' said a voice, and Nella came quietly in. 'I am
a nurse,' she added to the doctor, 'and at your orders.'
The next two hours were a struggle between life and death. The
first doctor, a specialist who followed him, Nella, Prince Aribert,
and old Hans formed, as it were, a league to save the dying man.
None else in the hotel knew the real seriousness of the case. When
a Prince falls ill, and especially by his own act, the precise truth is
not issued broadcast to the universe.
According to official intelligence, a Prince is never seriously ill
until he is dead. Such is statecraft.
The worst feature of Prince Eugen's case was that emetics proved
futile.
Neither of the doctors could explain their failure, but it was only
too apparent. The league was reduced to helplessness. At last the
great specialist from Manchester Square gave it out that there was
no chance for Prince Eugen unless the natural vigour of his
constitution should prove capable of throwing off the poison
unaided by scientific assistance, as a drunkard can sleep off his
potion.
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