This confession, or a garbled translation of it, was enough for the others; it confirmed their worst fears.  The farmer volunteered to ride for the nearest priest, but hesitated, declaring it a waste of time, inasmuch as the lady would be dead in half an hour.  His wife ran to the house for her crucifix and rosary, which latter she insisted upon hanging around Norine’s neck.  After that she directed the men to carry the sufferer indoors, her intention being to make her guest’s last moments as comfortable as possible.  When Norine refused to be carried she was warned that the least exertion would but hasten the end, which was, alas! all too near.

O’Reilly was impressed, in spite of himself, by this weight of conviction, especially when the Cubans ridiculed his suggestion that the combination of milk and mango might not prove altogether fatal to an American.  Nothing, they assured him, could possibly be deadlier than this abominable mixture.

The victim herself, however, remained skeptical; she alone treated the matter lightly, and although she did finally consent to lie down, it was merely to please the others and because she was tired.

“They have set their minds on seeing me expire, and they’re such nice people I’m almost ashamed to disappoint them,” she confided to O’Reilly.  “But really I’m too hungry to die.  Now don’t forget to call me when dinner is ready.”

“Honestly, do you feel all right?” he asked of her.

“Never better.”

The meal was slow in coming, for not only were the cooking arrangements primitive, but the apprehensive housewife could not long remain away from the sick-room.  She made frequent visits thereto, and after each she reported in a whisper the condition of the patient.  The lady looked very white. ...  Her breathing was becoming slower. ...  She was unconscious. ...  All would soon be over. ...  It was better to let her pass painlessly to paradise than to torture her with useless remedies.  Realizing that the poison had at last begun to work, the men tip-toed to the door and peered in compassionately, whereupon the sufferer roused herself sufficiently to call them “a lot of rubber-necks” and bid them begone.

“Her mind wanders,” explained the man of the house; and then to cheer O’Reilly he added, “She is young and strong; she may linger until evening.”

The meal was set at last, however; the men were stealthily attacking it.  Suddenly the sick woman swept out from her retreat and sat down among them.

“Senorita!  This is suicide!” they implored.

Then, as she ignored them and helped herself liberally to the food, their own appetites vanished and they pushed themselves away from the table.

With a twinkle in his eye O’Reilly said, gravely, “Dying people have strange fancies.  Pray don’t thwart her.”

Indifference so callous on the part of a lover shocked the Cubans.  They rebuked O’Reilly silently; it was plain that they considered Americans a barbarously cold-blooded race.  Meanwhile they apprehensively watched Norine’s every mouthful.