imself. He would
not do that. She had never heard of antidotes; for though poisoning was
traditionally familiar to her and the people of her class, it was very
uncommon. Yet her sharpened wit told her that if Sor Tommaso had
swallowed the stuff, as he had done, with a smile, he had means at his
disposal for counteracting it--some medicine which he had doubtless
taken as soon as she had left him. But if he had medicine to save from
poison, Dalrymple, who was a far wiser man, must have such medicines,
too, and even better ones. This reflexion decided her. She was close to
his door. It was probable that he would be in his room at that hour. She
was in fear of her life, and she knocked.

But Dalrymple had not come back. He had gone for a long walk alone in
the hills, had climbed higher as the sun sank lower, and was belated in
steep paths along which even his mountain-trained feet trod with some
caution. He was too familiar with the country to lose his way, but he by
no means found the shortest way there was, nor was he especially anxious
to do so. The hours would pass sooner in walking than in sitting over
his books under the flaring little flames of the three brass beaks.

Annetta saw that there was no light in the room, for the hole through
which the latch-string hung was worn wide with use. She felt dizzy, too,
and the knife-like pain ran through her so that she bent herself. She
knew that Dalrymple kept his medicines locked up in the laboratory, and
that she could not get at them, though she would have had little
hesitation in swallowing anything she found, in the simple certainty
that all his medicines must be good in themselves, and therefore
life-saving and good for her. But he was out, and she was sure that
there could be nothing in the bedroom. She had herself too often looked
into every corner when she watered and swept the brick floor each
morning, and put things in order according to her primitive ideas.

She then and there lost her hold upon life. She was poisoned, and must
die. She was as sure of it as the Chinaman who has seen an eagle, and
who, recognizing that his hour is come, calmly lies down and breathes
his last by the mere suspension of volition. In old countries the lower
orders, as a rule, have but a low vitality. It may be truer to say that
the vital volition is weak. Let the learned settle the definition. The
fact is easily accounted for. During generations upon generations the
majority of Europ