Nevertheless the chaplain persevered, although not a word he was uttering reached the ears of the wretched man.
At this moment the governor came in. He was a tall handsome man, of about fifty-five, with a military stride, and a military voice. He was, in fact, a retired officer in her Majesty’s service.
He glanced at the sufferer, who was writhing and making hideous grimaces.
“I am afraid you’ll not be able to do much with him—not at present, at any rate,” observed the governor, addressing himself to the chaplain; “still I thought it my duty to communicate with you.”
Mr. Leverall bowed to the governor, who glanced at the doctor; then the three gentlemen withdrew into a corner of the room, and conversed in whispers.
“He’s of a most excitable temperament, and as to making any impression on him I frankly own that I believe that to be quite hopeless. Under all the circumstances of the case, he had, I think, better be left to himself. His wounds are dressed, the broken bones are set, as well as we could do them, and in the course of an hour or so I shall prescribe an opiate.”
The governor nodded; the surgeon was a special favourite of his.
“In that case I shall not attempt to address any further conversation to him,” observed Mr. Leverall, pocketing his book, and accompanying the governor out of the ward.
“I am glad he’s taken his hook—jolly glad,” said the smuggler, following with his eyes the receding figures of the governor and the chaplain.
Desperately injured as the man was, and dangerous as were his wounds, these were as nothing in comparison to the madness of his despair at being thwarted in his attempt at escape.