"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.