“Another one!” he said, coming leisurely up, and glancing at the lifeless form with a very professional eye. “Well, I think there is room for another one in the cart; so bear a hand, friend, and let us have him out of this.” “You are mistaken!” said Sir Norman sharply, “he has not died of the plague. I am not even certain whether he is dead at all.” The driver looked at Sir Norman, then stooped down and touched Ormiston's icy face, and listened to hear him breathe. He stood up after a moment, with some thing like a small laugh. “If he's alive,” he said, turning to go, “then I never saw any one dead! Good night, sir, I wish you joy when you bring him to.” “Stay!” exclaimed the young man, “I wish you to assist me in bringing him to yonder apothecary's shop, and you may have this for your pains.” “This” proved to be a talisman of alacrity; for the man pocketed it, and briskly laid hold of Ormiston by the feet, while Sir Norman wrapped his cloak reverently about him and took him by the shoulders. In this style his body was conveyed to the apothecary's shop which they found half full of applicants for medicine, among whom their entrance with the corpse produced no greater sensation than a momentary stare. The attire and bearing of Sir Norman proving him to be something different from their usual class of visitors, bringing one of the drowsy apprentices immediately to his side, inquiring what were his orders. “A private room, and your master's attendance directly,” was the authoritative reply. Both were to be had; the former, a hole in the wall behind the shop; the latter, a pallid, cadaverous-looking person, with the air of one who had been dead a week, thought better of it and rose again. There was a long table in the aforesaid hole in the wall, bearing a strong family likeness to a dissecting-table; upon which the stark figure was laid, and the pest-cart driver disappeared. The apothecary held a mirror close to the face; applied his ear to the pulse and heart; held a pocket-mirror over his mouth, looked at it; shook his head; and set down the candle with decision. “The man is dead, sir!” was his criticism, “dead as a door nail! All the medicine in the shop wouldn't kindle one spark of life in such ashes!” “At least, try! Try something--bleeding for instance,” suggested Sir Norman. Again the apothecary examined the body, and again he shook his head dolefully. “It's no use, sir: but, if it will please, you can try.” The right arm was bared; the lancet inserted, one or two black drops sluggishly followed and nothing more. “It's all a waste of time, you see,” remarked the apothecary, wiping his dreadful little weapon, “he's as dead as ever I saw anybody in my life! How did he come to his end, sir--not by the plague?” “I don't know,” said Sir Norman, gloomily. “I wish you would tell me that.”