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Updated: May 2, 2025
Muriel was surprised in her own mind to discover how easily they could chat with M. Peyron on such indifferent subjects, with that awful doom of an approaching death hanging over them so shortly.
"M. Peyron, to whom I sent a message by flashes, has helped me in my difficulty. This bowl has poison in it. Peyron sent it to me to-day. He prepared it himself from the root of the kava bean. If by sunrise to-morrow you have heard no news, drink it off at once. It will instantly kill you. You shall not fall alive into that creature's clutches."
"You have heard him say much more than this at times? The words he has just uttered are not those of the sermon or poem you mentioned?" M. Peyron opened his hands expansively before him. "Oh, mon Dieu, no, monsieur," he answered, with effusion. "You should hear him recite it. He's never done. It is whole chapters whole chapters; a perfect Henriade in parrot-talk.
Felix seized his new friend's hand in his and wrung it warmly. "Don't you see what it is?" he exclaimed, half beside himself with this vague hope of some unknown solution. "Don't you realize how the thing stands? Don't you guess the truth? This isn't a Polynesian, dialect at all. It's our own mother tongue. The bird speaks English!" "English!" M. Peyron replied, with incredulous scorn. "What!
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