He knows the secrets of all the plants, and why people
die of disease. Months at a time he used to leave me alone with
Rosa, and go to Havana, to the hospitals; and there he would study
till his body was wasted away with work; but at the end he would come
back, bringing visitors. Oh, many visitors! for he was rich, and the
house had room for all. There were singers--he loves music--and men
who played all day at cards, and women who made me jealous. But he
would only laugh and say, 'Wait, little one.' So I waited, and in
the end they all died. Rosa said it was the yellow fever; but no."
She held up both hands, and made pretence to pour something from an
imaginary bottle into an imaginary glass. "He can kill with one tiny
drop. In his study he keeps a machine which makes water into ice.
Rosa would carry round the ice with little glasses of curacoa, after
the coffee was served; and all would say: 'What wonders are these?
Ice in Mortallone!' and would drink his health. But _he_ never
touched the ice. You tell that to your friends, little boy. But it
will not save them: for he will find some other way."
As we went up the woods these awful confidences poured from her like
childish prattle, interrupted only by little ripples of laughter,
half shy, half silly, and altogether horrible to hear.
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