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An hour later found Malkarski, pale and breathless, at the door of Portnoff's cabin, unable to recover his speech till Portnoff had primed him with a mug of Sprink's best whiskey. "What is it, my brother?" cried Portnoff, alarmed at his condition. "What is it?" "A plot!" gasped Malkarski, "a most damnable plot! Give me another drink."
Brown lifted her and laid her in Portnoff's arms. The dying man lay silent, gathering his strength. He was breathing now with great difficulty. "My son! I cannot see you " Brown came and took Kalman's place. "Here I am, father," said Kalman, kneeling beside him and holding his two hands. "Bid my daughter Irma farewell! She will be safe with you." Then after a pause he whispered, "In my pocket."
Like many of the Galician cabins, Portnoff's stood in the midst of a garden, in which bloomed a great variety of brilliant and old-fashioned flowers and shrubs, while upon the walls and climbing over the roof, a honeysuckle softened the uncouthness of the clay plaster.
Near one side of the shack stood the clay oven stove, which served the double purpose of heating the room and of cooking Portnoff's food.
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