“It is not poison,” cried Father d’Aigrigny.
“Then drink it!” returned the quarryman.
“Yes, yes! let him drink it!” cried the mob.
“Never,” answered Father d’Aigrigny, in extreme alarm. And he drew back as he spoke, pushing away the phial with his hand.
“Do you see? It is poison. He dares not drink it,” they exclaimed. Hemmed in on every side, Father d’Aigrigny stumbled against the body of Goliath.
“My friends,” cried the Jesuit, who, without being a poisoner, found himself exposed to a terrible alternative, for his phial contained aromatic salts of extraordinary strength, designed for a preservative against the cholera, and as dangerous to swallow as any poison, “my good friends, you are in error. I conjure you, in the name of heaven—”
“If that is not poison, drink it!” interrupted the quarryman, as he again offered the bottle to the Jesuit.
“If he does not drink it, death to the poisoner of the poor!”
“Yes!—death to him! death to him!”
“Unhappy men!” cried Father d’Aigrigny, whilst his hair stood on end with terror; “do you mean to murder me?”