"What is the matter? What are you doing, Aunt Charlotte?"
She uttered a cry, dropped the pillow, and stared up at him. Her face looked dry and wrinkled.
"My God! De chol'ra's in town! I'm waitin' on you! Dress, en come down en fetch de bun'le by de dooh." And she hurried back into the house.
But he continued leaning on his folded arms, his brain stunned by the shock of the intelligence. Suddenly he leaned far out and looked down at the closed shutters of the barber-shop. Old Charlotte reappeared.
"Where is Harry Sikes?" he asked.
"Dead en buried."
"When did he die?"
"Yestidd'y evenin'."
"What day is this?"
"Sadd'y."
M. Xaupi's ball had been on Thursday evening. That night the cholera had broken out. He had lain in his drunken stupor ever since. Their talk had lasted but a minute, but she looked up anxiously and urged him.
"D' ain' no time to was'e, honey! D' ain' no time to was'e. I done got dis cyart to tek you way in, en I be ready to start in a minute. Put yo' clo'es on en bring de bun le wid all yo' yudder things in it."
With incredible activity she climbed into the cart and began to roll up the bedclothes. In reality she had made up her mind to put him into the cart, and the pallet had been made for him to lie and finish his drunken sleep on, while she drove him away to a place of safety.
Still he did not move from the window-sill. He was
