Hubert's Whisper

Sir Norman was completely at a lose, and half beside himself, with
a thousand conflicting feelings of sorrow, astonishment, and
mystification. The rapid and exciting events of the night had turned
his head into a mental chaos, as they very well might, but he still had
commonsense enough left to know that something must be done about this
immediately. He knew the best place to take Ormiston was to the nearest
apothecary's shop, which establishments were generally open, and filled,
the whole livelong night, by the sick and their friends. As he was
meditating whether or not to call the surly watchman to help him carry
the body, a pest-cart came, providentially, along, and the driver-seeing
a young man bending over a prostrate form-guessed at once what was the
matter, and came to a halt.

"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."