Sir Norman Kingsley's consternation and horror on discovering the dead
body of his friend, was only equalled by his amazement as to how he got
there, or how he came to be dead at all. The livid face, up turned to
the moonlight, was unmistakably the face of a dead man--it was no swoon,
no deception, like Leoline's; for the blue, ghastly paleness that marks
the flight of the soul from the body was stamped on every rigid feature.
Yet, Sir Norman could not realize it. We all know how hard it is to
realize the death of a friend from whom we have but lately parted in
full health and life, and Ormiston's death was so sudden. Why, it was
not quite two hours since they had parted in Leoline's house, and even
the plague could not carry off a victim as quickly as this.
"Ormiston! Ormiston!" he called, between grief and dismay, as he raised
him in his arms, with his hand over the stilled heart; but Ormiston
answered not, and the heart gave no pulsation beneath his fingers. He
tore open his doublet, as the thought of the plague flashed through his
mind, but no plague-spot was to be seen, and it was quite evident,
from the appearance of the face, that he had not died of the distemper,
neither was there any wound or mark to show that he had met his end
violently. Yet the cold, white face was convulsed, as if he had died in
throes of agony, the hands were clenched, till the nails sank into the
flesh; and that was the only outward sign or token that he had suffered
in expiring.
Sir Norman was completely at a lose, and half beside himself, with
a thousand conflicting feelings of sorrow, astonishment, and
mystification. The rapid and exciting events of the night had turned
his head into a mental chaos, as they very well might, but he still had
commonsense enough left to know that something must be done about this
immediately. He knew the best place to take Ormiston was to the nearest
apothecary's shop, which establishments were generally open, and filled,
the whole livelong night, by the sick and their friends. As he was
meditating whether or not to call the surly watchman to help him carry
the body, a pest-cart came, providentially, along, and the driver-seeing
a young man bending over a prostrate form-guessed at once what was the
matter, and came to a halt.
"Another one!" he said, coming leisurely up, and glancing at the
lifeless form with a very professional eye. "Well, I think there is room
for another one in the cart; so bear a hand, friend, and let us have him
out of this."
"You are mistaken!" said Sir Norman sharply, "he has not died of the
plague. I am not even certain whether he is dead at all."