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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
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