“Beyond your help, my dear doctor,” said the skipper; “she is dead—all that remains of her you see within that small railing there.”
“Ah, indeed!” quoth the Medico, “poor girl—poor girl—deep decline, wasted, terribly wasted,” said he, as he returned from the railing of the altar-piece, where he had been to look down upon the body; and then, as if there never had been such a being as poor Maria Olivera in existence, he continued, “Pray, Mr Bang, what may you have in that bottle?”
“Brandy, to be sure, doctor,” said Bang.
“A thimbleful then, if you please.”
“By all means”—and the planting attorney handed the black bottle to the surgeon, who applied it to his lips, without more circumlocution.
“Lord love us!—poisoned—Oh, gemini!”
“Why, doctor,” said Transom, “what has come over you?”
“Poisoned, Captain—only taste.”
The bottle contained soy. It was some time before we could get the poor man quieted; and when at length he was stretched along a bench, and the fire stirred up, and new wood added to it, the fresh air of early morning began to be scented. At this time we missed Padre Carera, and, in truth, we all fell fast asleep; but in about an hour or so afterwards, I was awoke by some one stepping across me. The same cause had stirred Transom. It was Aaron Bang who had been to look out at the door.
“I say, Cringle, look here—the Padre and the servants are digging a grave close to the chapel—are they going to bury the poor girl so suddenly?”