“You observe,” he said to Bellines; “his fire was burning when we found him.”
“Yes, sir.”
“There is more wood and more candle?”
“Yes, sir; the wood in this corner, and the candle on the table—just under your hand, sir.”
“Oh, ay, here. Put on some wood, and blow up a flame. Observe, we found his fire burning.”
“Yes, sir.”
They soon re-appeared in the courtyard, and announced the death of the prisoner. Rubaut ordered a messenger to be in readiness to ride to Pontarlier, by the time he should have written a letter.
“We must have the physicians from Pontarlier,” observed the Commandant, aloud, “to examine the deceased, and declare what he died of. The old man has not been well for some time past. I have no doubt the physicians will find that he died of apoplexy, or something of the kind.”
“No wonder, poor soul!” said a sutler’s wife to another woman.
“No wonder, indeed,” replied the other. “My husband died of the heat in Saint Domingo; and they took this poor man (don’t tell it, but he was a black; I got a sight of him, and he came from Saint Domingo, you may depend upon it)—they took him out of all that heat, and put him into that cold, damp place there! No wonder he is dead.”