den movement of Father d'Aigrigny, who disengaged himself from
the quarryman, a large glass phial of peculiar form, very thick, and
filled with a greenish liquor, fell from his pocket, and rolled close to
the dying Goliath. At sight of this phial, many voices exclaimed
together: "It is poison! Only see! He had poison upon him."

The clamor redoubled at this accusation, and they pressed so close to
Abbe d'Aigrigny, that he exclaimed: "Do not touch me! do not approach
me!"

"If he is a poisoner," said a voice, "no more mercy for him than for the
other."

"I a poisoner?" said the abbe, struck with horror.

Ciboule had darted upon the phial; the quarryman seized it from her,
uncorked it and presenting it to Father d'Aigrigny, said to him: "Now
tell us what is that?"

"It is not poison," cried Father d'Aigrigny.

"Then drink it!" returned the quarryman.

"Yes, yes! let him drink it!" cried the mob.

"Never," answered Father d'Aigrigny, in extreme alarm. And he drew back
as he spoke, pushing away the phial with his hand.

"Do you see? It is poison. He dares not drink it," they exclaimed. Hemmed
in on every side, Father d'Aigrigny stumbled against the body of Goliath.

"My friends," cried the Jesuit, who, without being a poisoner, found
himself exposed to a terrible alternative, for his phial contained
aromatic salts of extraordinary strength, designed for a preservative
against the cholera, and as dangerous to swallow as any poison, "my good
friends, you are in error. I conjure you, in the name of heaven--"

"If that is not poison, drink it!" interrupted the quarryman, as he again
offered the bottle to the Jesuit.

"If he does not drink it, death to the poisoner of the poor!"

"Yes!--death to him! death to him!"

"Unhappy men!" cried Father d'Aigrigny, whilst his hair stood on end with
terror; "do you mean to murder me?"

"What about all those, that you and your mate have killed, you wretch?"

"But it is not true--and--"

"Drink, then!" repeated the inflexible quarryman; "I ask you for the last
time."

"To drink that would be death," cried Father d'Aigrigny.

"Oh! only hear the wretch!" cried the mob, pressing closer to him; "he
has confessed--he has confessed!"

"He has betrayed himself!"[40]

"He said, 'to drink that would be death!'"

"But listen to me," cried the abbe, clasping his hands together; "this
phial is--"

Furious cries interrupted Father d'Aigrigny. "Ciboule, make an end of
that on