The Midnight Queen [98]
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."
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."
"Never knew him to have such a thing," said Sir Norman, sighing.
"It is very mysterious and very dreadful, and notwithstanding all
you have said, I cannot believe him dead. Can he not remain here
until morning, at least?"