Ormiston looked at
him distractedly, uncertain whether to try moral suasion or to
take him by the collar and drag him headlong down the stairs,
when a providential but rather dismal circumstance came to his
relief. A cart came rattling along the street, a bell was loudly
rang, and a hoarse voice arose with it: "Bring out your dead!
Bring out your dead!"
Ormiston rushed down stair to intercept the dead-cart, already
almost full on it way to the plague-pit. The driver stopped at
his call, and instantly followed him up stairs, and into the
room. Glancing at the body with the utmost sang-froid, he
touched the dress, and indifferently remarked:
"A bride, I should say; and an uncommonly handsome one too.
We'll just take her along as she is, and strip these nice things
off the body when we get it to the plague-pit."
So saying, he wrapped her in the sheet, and directing Ormiston to
take hold of the two lower ends, took the upper corners himself,
with the air of a man quite used to that sort of thing. Ormiston
recoiled from touching it; and Sir Norman seeing what they were
about to do, and knowing there was no help for it, made up his
mind, like a sensible young man as he was, to conceal his
feelings, and caught hold of the sheet himself.
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