“Don’t go—it’s absurd!” said McDermot, laying a hand on the young man’s arm. “The plague cannot be cured.”
“Yes, I will go,” answered Cumner’s Son. “I believe he speaks the truth. Go you to Pango Dooni and tell him all.”
He spurred his horse and trotted away, the beggar running beside him. They passed out of the court-yard, and through the Gate by the Fountain of Sweet Waters.
They had not gone far when they saw Cumner, the Governor, and six men of the artillery riding towards them. The Governor stopped, and asked him where he was going.
The young man told him all.
The Colonel turned pale. “You would do this thing!” said he dumfounded. “Suppose this rascal,” nodding towards the beggar, “speaks the truth; and suppose that, after all, the sick man should die and—”
“Then the lad and myself would be the first to follow him,” interrupted the beggar, “and all the multitude would come after, from the babe on the mat to the old man by the Palace gates. But if the sick man lives—”
The Governor looked at his son partly in admiration, partly in pain, and maybe a little of anger.
“Is there no one else? I tell you I—”
“There is no one else; the lad or death for the city! I can believe the young; the old have deceived me,” interposed the beggar again.