When it came to the turn of Carbuccia, he would have given ten years of his life to have been at the Galleys rather than Calcutta, but he contrived to pull through, without, however, creating a favourable impression, for _adversarius noster diabolus_ passed on with contracted brow, and when the disconcerting inquiry was over, returned to the centre of the circle, gave a final glance around, approached Shekleton, and civilly requested him to shake hands.

The importer of missionary skulls complied with a horrible yell; there was an electric shock, sudden darkness, and general _coup-de-theatre_.

When the torches were rekindled, the apparition had vanished, Shekleton was discovered to be dead, and the initiates crowding round him, sang: "Glory immortal to Shekleton! He has been chosen by our omnipotent God." It was too much for the galliard merchant, and he swooned.
Now, this is why Signor Carbuccia concluded that he was damned, which appears to have been precipitate.

He has contrived, by the good offices of his lay confessor, to square matters with the hierarchy of Adonai, who belongs to the Latin persuasion; he has changed his name, adopted a third profession, and is so safe in retreat that his friends are as unlikely to find him as are the enemies who thirst for his blood.
Doctor Bataille, faithful to his role of good Catholic, perceived at once that the Merchant's Story of these new Arabian Nights was characterised by extreme frankness, was devoid of a sinister motive, and was not the narrative of a maniac.

A physician, he adds sententiously, is not to be deceived.