"Here are your own words, and very diabolical words they are. Listen." With his eye on his notes, Æacus read: "Two plants, the thalagssigle and the aglaphotis, are luminous in the evening, flowers by day, stars by night." And looking steadily at Ursus: "What have you to say to that?"
Ursus answered: "Every plant is a lamp. Its perfume is its light."
Æacus turned over other pages. "You have denied that the vesicles of the otter are equivalent to castoreum."
"I merely said that perhaps it may be necessary to receive the teaching of Aëtius on this point with some reserve."
Æacus became furious. "You practise medicine?"
"I practise medicine," sighed Ursus, timidly.
"On living things?"
"Rather than on dead ones," said Ursus.
Ursus defended himself stoutly, but dully,—an admirable mixture, in which meekness predominated. He spoke with such gentleness that Doctor Æacus felt that he must insult him.
"What are you murmuring there?" said he, rudely.
Ursus was amazed, and restricted himself to saying, "Murmurings are for the young, and moans for the aged. Alas, I moan!"
Æacus replied: "Be assured of this: if you attend a sick person, and he dies, you will be punished by death."
Ursus hazarded a question. "And if he gets well?"
"In that case," said the doctor, lowering his voice, "you will also be punished by death."
"There is very little difference," said Ursus.
The doctor replied: "If death ensues, we punish gross ignorance; if recovery, we punish presumption. The gibbet in either case."
