As he proceeded, facing north, the possibilities of the Half Moon grew in his mind. He saw a snug corner, with the light of many candles falling upon a bountifully spread table. It was night, and it had turned cold; a cheerful fire snapped in the grate. There was a glass of mulled ale before him, with a comforting vapor arising from it, and across the rim of the glass he saw a pair of eyes. They were the most liquid eyes he'd ever seen--brown, he thought--brown, and deep--as deep as a pool brimming with early sunlight. In Water Street, near to Mulberry, was a low stone house with a wide door and two flag steps that led down to it. In a window, paned with small squares of glass, there hung great bunches of herbs, gray and dried, and roots that stretched crookedly about as though in search of moisture. Anthony instantly descended the two steps, bowed his head so that he might avoid scraping the nap of his beaver against the fan-light, and went in. The place was large and low-ceilinged, and heavy with medicinal smells. From hooks in the walls hung more bundles of herbs and roots; shelves were stored with little packets of bark; in bottles and jars were the seeds and flowers of many virtuous plants. A little active old man, with horn-rimmed spectacles, came forward; he rubbed the bald top of his head with one hand and surveyed his visitor with mild attention. "What can I serve you with, sir?" said he. Anthony bent over the oaken counter and presented his face for inspection. "Look at me," said he. The little man ceased from rubbing his head. "I am not a doctor of physic," stated he, regretfully, "and, so I cannot pronounce upon a complaint with authority. But," and his face was screwed into an expression of much sagacity, "as you look like a normal youth, I would venture that the thing you suffer is the plague. It still visits hereabout, and we've had great misgivings of it all summer through. If you feel your vitals at all grasped by this ailment, I entreat you, sir, to keep from gunpowder and ardent spirits." And, as Anthony nodded and smiled, the little apothecary went on, earnestly: "The spirits, I grant you, have a place in materia medica, as a glowing, forceful agent; they contain the life principle of the subject from which they are drawn, and to be fortified in time of need with the life principle of anything whatsoever may be considered an advantage. But the gunpowder, sir, I cannot grant you. What serves it to rattle away with a fowling-piece at the bedside of a disabled person? You make a noise, and a stink, and nothing more." "What," said Anthony, "makes you think I have the plague?"