And with that girl took the roots out of her pocket, and laid them before the doctor.
"Oh!" cried the doctor, stupefied, "why, this is Atropa mandragora—a deadly poison!"
The girl clapped her hands to her face, "How did I know it was poison?" she asked.
"Klárika," said the doctor, "do not startle me more or I shall jump out of the window. Surely you did not poison Sándor?"
The girl nodded mutely.
"And what in thunder did you do it for?"
"He was so unkind to me, and once a gypsy woman made me believe that if I steeped that root in his wine I should have him at my feet again."
"Well, I never! . . . You must hold traffic with gypsy women, must you? To school you won't go, where the master would teach you to distinguish poisonous plants. No, no, you will only learn from a gypsy vagabond! Well, you have made your lad nice and obedient!"
"Will he die?" asked the girl with an imploring look.
"Die? Must he die next? No, his body and soul are not stitched together in such a ramshackle fashion."