At the same moment Claude dropped back upon his pillows, muttering, with dry lips: "Du vin, Armand—pour l'amour de Dieu—du vin!"
Deborah looked up quickly, catching and understanding the words. "Have you something for him to drink?" she asked, before St. Quentin could speak.
"Ay. There's fresh water and a tankard here," responded Mistress Vawse, hurrying over to a small stand in one corner, where stood a pewter pitcher and mug.
"Then let me have the cup for a moment," said the girl, in a low voice, taking from her breast the little bottle of brownish liquid. Into the water which Dame Miriam brought, Deborah, with a steady hand, poured five drops of the aconitum napellus. "Now, make him take it—all," she said, recorking the phial.
St. Quentin took the cup and pressed it to the lips of de Mailly, who was still groaning with thirst. He drained the draught eagerly and lay back on his pillows murmuring thanks and closing his eyes for the first time since early morning. The priest, attracted by his manner and his face, lifted a chair to the bedside and sat down. Deborah, after looking at him once again, drew a long breath, and moved over to the window, when Miriam touched her arm.
"Leave the medicine here and come with me, Miss Debby, till I show you some of his things."
"What things? Wait. You must know about this, first. Never give him more than four drops in half a cup of water—and that not too often—twice a day, I think."
"Why? Is't dangerous?"
"Ten drops will kill an animal."
"Mercy on us! I'll be careful, then. But come, now, to the best room. There I've laid some of his things that were all rumpled with bad packing. My faith! Such satins and laces you never did see, and linen—as fine as your India muslin—and shoe-buckles!" With which information good Miriam led the way on tiptoe from the room, Deborah, half reluctantly, half eagerly, following her.