Patience, it may be remembered, had promised Blaize to give him her earnings to enable him to procure a fresh supply of medicine, and about a week after he had received the trifling amount (for he had been so constantly employed by the grocer that he had no opportunity of getting out before), he sallied forth to visit a neighbouring apothecary, named Parkhurst, from whom he had been in the habit of purchasing drugs, and who occupied a small shop not far from the grocer’s, on the opposite side of the street.  Parkhurst appeared overjoyed to see him, and, without giving him time to prefer his own request, inquired after his master’s family—­whether they were all well, especially fair Mistress Amabel—­and, further, what was the meaning of the large supplies of provision which he saw daily conveyed to the premises?  Blaize shook his head at the latter question, and for some time refused to answer it.  But being closely pressed by Parkhurst, he admitted that his master was about to shut up his house.

“Shut up his house!” exclaimed Parkhurst.  “I never heard of such a preposterous idea.  If he does so, not one of you will come out alive.  But I should hope that he will be dissuaded from his rash design.”

“Dissuaded!” echoed Blaize.  “You don’t know my master.  He’s as obstinate as a mule when he takes a thing into his head.  Nothing will turn him.  Besides, Doctor Hodges sanctions and even recommends the plan.”

“I have no opinion of Doctor Hodges,” sneered the apothecary.  “He is not fit to hold a candle before a learned friend of mine, a physician, who is now in that room.  The person I speak of thoroughly understands the pestilence, and never fails to cure every case that comes before him.  No shutting up houses with him.  He is in possession of an infallible remedy.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed Blaize, pricking up his ears.  “What is his name?”

“His name!” cried Parkhurst, with a puzzled look.  “How strange it should slip my memory!  Ah, now I recollect.  It is Doctor Calixtus Bottesham.”

“A singular name, truly,” remarked Blaize; “but it sounds like that of a clever man.”

“Doctor Calixtus Bottesham is a wonderful man,” returned the apothecary.  “I have never met with his like.  I would trumpet forth his merits through the whole city, but that it would ruin my trade.  The plague is our harvest, as my friend Chowles, the coffin-maker, says, and it will not do to stop it—­ha! ha!”

“It is too serious a subject to laugh at,” returned Blaize, gravely.  “But are the doctor’s fees exorbitant?”

“To the last degree,” replied Parkhurst.  “I am afraid to state how much he asks.”

“I fear I shall not be able to consult him, then,” said Blaize, turning over the coin in his pocket; “and yet I should greatly like to do so.”

“Have no fear on that score,” returned the apothecary.  “I have been able to render him an important service, and he will do anything for me.  He shall give you his advice gratis.”