he felt, the single spellword, which had produced an effect so
powerful.

"Bran--bran--brandy!--Alfred Stevens!--thou hast given me poison--the
soul's poison--the devil's liquor--liquor distilled in the vessels
of eternal sin. Wherefore hast thou done this? Dost thou not know"--

"Know--know what, Mr. Cross?" replied Stevens, with all the
astonishment which he could possibly throw into his air, as he
descended from his horse with all haste to recover his flask, and
save its remaining contents from loss.

"Call me not mister--call me plain John Cross," replied the
preacher--in the midst of a second fit of choking, the result of
his vain effort to disgorge that portion of the pernicious liquid
which had irretrievably descended into his bowels. With a surprise
admirably affected, Stevens approached him.

"My dear sir--what troubles you?--what can be the matter? What have
I done? What is it you fear?"

"That infernal draught--that liquor--I have swallowed of it a mouthful.
I feel it in me. The sin be upon thy head, Alfred Stevens--why did
you not tell me, before I drank, that it was the soul's poison?--the
poison that slays more than the sword or the pestilence;--the
liquor of the devil, distilled in the vessels of sin--and sent among
men for the destruction of the soul! I feel it now within me, and
it burns--it burns like the fires of damnation. Is there no water
nigh that I may quench my thirst?--Show me, Alfred Stevens, show me
where the cool waters lie, that I may put out these raging flames."