Then came the third night, and still the failing man was alone with that one old negro, who would not be sent away; and over him bent the household viper, whose sting had been worse than death. A dim lamp was in the room, and through the open windows came the night air, in soft, sweet gushes, making the muslin drapery tremble in the flaring lamplight.
Daniel Clark turned upon his pillow; his eyes opened wide, and he moved his hands in the air, as if seeking to grasp at something. Ross bent over and spoke to him, but the dying man closed his eyes and motioned the traitor away with his hand. The old negro came up, choking back the tears, and bent his gray head gently over his master. Again Clark opened his eyes; a sudden light came into them, and a smile stole over the whole face.
“Bend down,” he whispered, “bend close to me, my old servant, for I am dying.”
The old man bent his head still lower, holding his breath, and checking the tears that swelled his faithful heart. “Dear master, I listen.”
Clark lifted his hand, and grasped that of the old man with a feeble hold.
“My wife—my child! See that no wrong is done them.”
The old man looked down upon that ashen face with surprise. “This must be delirium,” he thought, “for my poor master had neither wife nor child.”
The eyes of the dying man were misty, but he saw the doubt in his servant’s face. A look of distress passed over his own, and he made a vain effort to collect the power of speech. But he could only say, “The will—that must tell you—it is below, take it into your own hands the moment I am dead; and take it to—to—”
“To Master Ross?” said the old man, observing that his master’s voice was sinking.
“No! no!” These words broke from the dying man with his last breath; he fell back upon the pillow; his hands wandered upward for an instant, and then fell heavily upon the bed. Still his eyes were open—still they were fixed with mournful intensity on the old man’s face.