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.
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