"Nitre?" he asked, at length.

"Nitre," I replied. "How long have you had that cough?"

"Ugh! ugh! ugh!--ugh! ugh! ugh!--ugh! ugh! ugh!--ugh! ugh!
ugh!--ugh! ugh! ugh!"

My poor friend found it impossible to reply for many minutes.

"It is nothing," he said, at last.

"Come," I said, with decision, "we will go back; your health
is precious. You are rich, respected, admired, beloved; you are
happy, as once I was. You are a man to be missed. For me it is no
matter. We will go back; you will be ill, and I cannot be
responsible. Besides, there is Luchesi--"

"Enough," he said; "the cough is a mere nothing; it will not
kill me. I shall not die of a cough."

"True--true," I replied; "and, indeed, I had no intention of
alarming you unnecessarily--but you should use all proper caution.
A draught of this Medoc will defend us from the damps."

Here I knocked off the neck of a bottle which I drew from a
long row of its fellows that lay upon the mould.

"Drink," I said, presenting him the wine.