"A glass of water!" she cried. "Get me a glass of water."

The young librarian came forward with a black eye.

"It's all right, ma'am. The gentleman's gone," he piped.

"What gentleman? Give me a glass of water or I shall die!"

The young librarian, who had already an injured air, proceeded from a
positive to a comparative condition of appearance.

"Well, I never! What gentleman!" he exclaimed. "And me blue and black
all over, to say nothing of the bookcase and the new paint that'll be
wanted for the door!"

"Can you chatter about trifles at such a moment?" cried the Prophet.
"Don't you see the lady's been poisoned?"

"What--by the old gent?" returned the young librarian. "Then what does
she come to a library for? Why don't she go to a chemist?"

The lady turned her agonised eyes upon the Prophet.

"Take me to one," she whispered through pale lips.

She tottered towards him and leaned upon his arm.

"Trust me, trust me, I will," said the Prophet. "Direct me!" he added to
the young librarian.