"Matthew," replied his wife, "I have had the plague myself, and know how to treat it better than any doctor in London. I will cure you, if you will let me."
"I have no faith in you," replied Malmayns, "but I suppose I must submit. Take heed what you do to me, for if I have but five minutes to live, it will be long enough to revenge myself upon you."
"I will anoint your sore with this salve," rejoined Judith, producing a pot of dark-coloured ointment, and rubbing his shoulder with it. "It was given me by Sibbald, the apothecary of Clerkenwell He is a friend of Chowles, the coffin-maker. You know Chowles, Matthew?"
"I know him for as great a rascal as ever breathed," replied her husband, gruffly. "He has always cheated me out of my dues, and his coffins are the worst I ever put under ground."
"He is making his fortune now," said Judith.
"By the plague, eh?" replied Matthew. "I don't envy him. Money so gained won't stick to him. He will never prosper."
"I wish you had his money, Matthew," replied his wife, in a coaxing tone.
"If the plague hadn't attacked me when it did, I should have been richer than Chowles will ever be," replied the sexton,—"nay, I am richer as it is."
"You surprise me," replied Judith, suddenly pausing in her task. "How have you obtained your wealth?"
"I have discovered a treasure," replied, the sexton, with a mocking laugh,—"a secret hoard—a chest of gold—ha! ha!"