The driver looked at Sir Norman, then stooped down and touched

Ormiston's icy face, and listened to hear him breathe. He stood up after

a moment, with some thing like a small laugh.

"If he's alive," he said, turning to go, "then I never saw any one dead!

Good night, sir, I wish you joy when you bring him to."

"Stay!" exclaimed the young man, "I wish you to assist me in bringing

him to yonder apothecary's shop, and you may have this for your pains."

"This" proved to be a talisman of alacrity; for the man pocketed it, and

briskly laid hold of Ormiston by the feet, while Sir Norman wrapped his

cloak reverently about him and took him by the shoulders. In this style

his body was conveyed to the apothecary's shop which they found half

full of applicants for medicine, among whom their entrance with the

corpse produced no greater sensation than a momentary stare. The attire

and bearing of Sir Norman proving him to be something different from

their usual class of visitors, bringing one of the drowsy apprentices

immediately to his side, inquiring what were his orders.

"A private room, and your master's attendance directly," was the

authoritative reply.

Both were to be had; the former, a hole in the wall behind the shop; the

latter, a pallid, cadaverous-looking person, with the air of one who had

been dead a week, thought better of it and rose again. There was a

long table in the aforesaid hole in the wall, bearing a strong family

likeness to a dissecting-table; upon which the stark figure was laid,

and the pest-cart driver disappeared. The apothecary held a mirror

close to the face; applied his ear to the pulse and heart; held a

pocket-mirror over his mouth, looked at it; shook his head; and set down

the candle with decision.

"The man is dead, sir!" was his criticism, "dead as a door nail! All the

medicine in the shop wouldn't kindle one spark of life in such ashes!"

"At least, try! Try something--bleeding for instance," suggested Sir

Norman.

Again the apothecary examined the body, and again he shook his head

dolefully.

"It's no use, sir: but, if it will please, you can try."

The right arm was bared; the lancet inserted, one or two black drops

sluggishly followed and nothing more.

"It's all a waste of time, you see," remarked the apothecary, wiping his

dreadful little weapon, "he's as dead as ever I saw anybody in my life!

How did he come to his end, sir--not by the plague?"

"I don't know," said Sir Norman, gloomily. "I wish you would tell me

that."

"Can't do it, sir; my skill doesn't extend that far. There is no

plague-spot or visible wound or bruise on the person; so he must have

died of some internal complaint--probably disease of the heart."




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