“I—I said that?” he cried. “Well, why not?”
“Why not?” she said, gazing at him fixedly, “why not? Look, then.”
He bent forward wondering, as he struggled with the fit that was coming on again, while she took a bottle from the little satchel hanging from her wrist, snatched out the stopper, and poured a portion of its contents into the glass.
“There!” she cried triumphantly. “The test. Poison—one of our strongest drugs. Are you brave enough to drink?”
He took a step forward, seized the glass, tottered for a moment, and let a little splash over the side on to the floor. Then, drawing himself up, he placed the vessel to his lips, and drained it—the last drop seeming to scald his throat, and making him drop the tumbler, and clap his hands to his lips.
Then, half turning round, he thrust out his hands again, as if feeling, like one suddenly struck blind, for something to save himself from falling. A little later, he lurched suddenly, his legs gave way beneath him, and he sank heavily upon the floor.