Free Haunted Castles by Ray Russell Page B

paralyzed patients.”
    â€œMost ingenious, sir,” he said.
    â€œI must warn you,” I went on, “that this distillment has never been used on a human subject. It may kill you. I must, perforce, urge you again not to insist upon its use; to accept your lot; and to remove the threat of punishment you now hold over your wife’s head.”
    â€œYou seek to frighten me, Doctor,” chuckled Sardonicus; “to plant distrust in my bosom. But I fear you not—an English knight and a respected physician would never do a deed so dishonourable as to wittingly kill a patient under his care. You would be hamstrung by your gentleman’s code as well as by your professional oath. Your virtues are, in short, my vices’ best ally.”
    I bristled. “I am no murderer such as you,” I said. “If you force me to use this treatment, I will do everything in my power to insure its success. But I cannot conceal from you the possibility of your death.”
    â€œSee to it that I live,” he said flatly, “for if I die, my men will kill both you and my wife. They will not kill you quickly. See to it, also, that I am cured—lest Maude be subjected to a fate she fears more than the slowest of tortures.” I said nothing. “Then bring me this elixir straightway,” he said, “and let me drink it off and make an end of this!”
    â€œIt is not to be drunk,” I told him.
    He laughed. “Is it your plan to smear it on darts, like the savages?”
    â€œYour jest is most apposite,” I said. “I indeed plan to introduce it into your body by means of a sharp instrument—a new instrument not yet widely known, that was sent me from Scotland. The original suggestion was put forth in the University of Oxford some two hundred years ago by Dr. Christopher Wren, but only recently, through development by my friend, Dr. Wood of Edinburgh, has it seemed practical. It is no more than a syringe”—I showed him the instrument—“attached to a needle; but the needle is hollow, so that, when it punctures the skin, it may carry healing drugs directly into the bloodstream.”
    â€œThe medical arts will never cease earning my admiration,” said Sardonicus.
    I filled the syringe. My patient said, “Wait.”
    â€œAre you afraid?” I asked.
    â€œSince that memorable night in my father’s grave,” he replied, “I have not known fear. I had a surfeit of it then; it will last out my lifetime. No: I simply wish to give instructions to one of my men.” He arose from the table, and, going to the door, told one of his helots to bring Madam Sardonicus to the laboratory.
    â€œWhy must she be here?” I asked.
    â€œThe sight of her,” he said, “may serve you as a remembrancer of what awaits her in the event of my death, or of that other punishment she may expect should your treatment prove ineffectual.”
    Maude was brought into our presence. She looked upon my equipment—the bubbling retorts and tubes, the pointed syringe—with amazement and fright. I began to explain the principle of the treatment to her, but Sardonicus interrupted: “Madam is not one of your students, Sir Robert; it is not necessary she know these details. Delay no longer; begin at once!”
    He stretched out upon the table again, fixing his eyes upon me. I proffered Maude a comforting look, and walked over to my patient. He did not wince as I drove the needle of the syringe into the left, and then the right, side of his face. “Now, sir,” I said—and the tremor in my voice surprised me—“we must wait a period of ten minutes.” I joined Maude, and talked to her in low tones, keeping my eyes always upon my patient. He stared at the ceiling; his face remained solidified in that unholy grin. Precisely ten minutes later, a short gasp escaped him; I rushed to his side, and Maude followed close behind me.
    We