I said, "Doctor, in tent No.---- there is a very sick man;
can we look at the books and learn what diagnosis his surgeon has
made?" We went to the office, found the patient's name and number:
diagnosis,--_Measles_. I then said, "Dr. Beatty, it is not measles,
but, I fear, smallpox." At once, the doctor strode off, followed
closely by myself. As before, the tent was dark. "Lift those flaps
high," said the surgeon. It was done, and there lay before us a
veritable case of smallpox.
Dr. Beatty's entire calmness and self-possession quite restored my
own. Said he, "I must have time to consult my surgeons, to determine
what is to be done. Meanwhile, retire to your cabin. You will hear
from me when matters are arranged."
The next few hours were for me fraught with fearful anxiety and
uncertainty,--yes, _uncertainty_,--for (to my shame, let it be
recorded) I actually debated in my own mind whether or not to desert
these unfortunate boys of mine, who could not themselves escape the
threatened danger.
God helping me, I was able to resist this terrible temptation. I had,
I reasoned, been already exposed as much as was possible, having
attended the sick man for days before.
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