"What's the matter?" cried Blaize, suddenly halting.
"I only got up to see whether the wine was coming," replied Pillichody.
"Yes, here it is," replied Blaize, as his mother reappeared; "and now you shall have a glass of such sack as you never yet tasted."
And pouring out a bumper, he offered it to Pillichody. The latter took the glass; but his hand shook so violently that he could not raise it to his lips.
"What ails you, friend?" inquired Blaize, uneasily.
"I don't know," replied Pillichody; "but I feel extremely unwell."
"He looks to me as if he had got the plague," observed Patience, to Blaize.
"The plague!" exclaimed the latter, letting fall the glass, which shivered to pieces on the stone floor. "And I have touched him. Where is the vinegar-bottle? I must sprinkle myself directly, and rub myself from head to foot with oil of hartshorn and spirits of sulphur. Mother! dear mother! you have taken away my medicine-chest. If you love me, go and fetch me a little conserve of Roman wormwood and mithridate. You will find them in two small jars."
"Oh yes, do," cried Patience; "or he may die with fright."
Moved by their joint entreaties, old Josyna again departed; and her back was no sooner turned, than Patience said in an undertone to Pillichody,—"Now is your time. You have not a moment to lose."