"Is~.~.~. is~.~.~. any one listening?" he asked in short, hard breaths.
I motioned the others back.
"Listen"—the words came in quick, rasping breaths. "She is not mine~.~.~. it was at night~.~.~. they brought her~.~.~. ward o' the court~.~.~. lands~.~.~. they wanted me." There was a sharp pause, a shivering whisper. "I didn't poison her"—the dying man caught convulsively at my hands—"I swear I had no thought of harming her.~.~.~. They~.~.~. paid.~.~.~. I fled.~.~.~."
"Who paid you to poison Hortense? Who is Hortense?" I demanded; for his life was ebbing and the words portended deep wrong.
But his mind was wandering again, for he began talking so fast that I could catch only a few words. "Blood! Blood! Colonel Blood!" Then "Swear it," he cried.
That speech sapped his strength. He sank back with shut eyes and faint breathings.
We forced a potion between his lips.
"Don't let Gillam," he mumbled, "don't let Gillam~.~.~. have the furs."
A tremor ran through his stiffening frame. A little shuddering breath—and M. Picot had staked his last pawn in life's game.
[1] In confirmation of Mr. Stanhope's record it may be stated that on the western side of the northland in the Mackenzie River region are gas and tar veins that are known to have been burning continuously for nearly two centuries.