Some echo of the words seemed to reach the failing ear. He opened his eyes, and fixing them full on Esther, he muttered slowly—
"Die in peace! Die in peace! I'll never see Mary again. I'll be gone afore she's free. An' where will I be gone?"
It was an awful question, dropping from the ashen lips of that dying man, tottering upon the verge of a dark eternity. No answer came from his hearers—from the old woman, or from Esther Forsyth, or from poor little Ailie. What answer could they give? They hoped he would sink again into stupor, and "die quiet." But the hollow eyes looked from one to another in appeal.
"Where will I be gone?" repeated Jem. "I've nought to do with dyin' in peace—not I. What's them lines I once learned, or somebody telled me?—
"'There is a dreadful hell,
With darkness, fire, an' chains.'
"What's the rest, Ailie?"
"Oh, father, don't ye—don't ye," sobbed Ailie, in distress.
"Come, don't ye be in a taking, Carter," said Esther, trying to cheer him. "You've been a steady man enough, off an' on, and it's little o' drink that's passed your lips o' late."
"Drink!" repeated Jem; and then a strange look passed over the face looking up into hers. "Maybe I've not drunk as much as some. Maybe I've wanted to live respectable, and couldn't manage it neither. Will that take me to heaven, woman?"
The question came almost fiercely from between his parted lips, through which the labouring breath passed to and fro.