"Sir, he cannot live a minute."
Darvil raised himself bolt upright—shook his clenched fist at his conquerors, and a fearful gurgling howl, which the nature of his wounds did not allow him to syllable into a curse, came from his breast—with that he fell flat on his back—a corpse.
"I am afraid, sir," said the elder officer, turning away, you had a narrow escape—but how came you here?"
"Rather, how came /you/ here?"
"Honest Hodge there, with the lanthorn, had marked the fellow skulk behind the haystack, when he himself was going out to snare rabbits. He had seen our advertisement of Watts' person, and knew that we were then at a public house some miles off. He came to us—conducted us to the spot—we heard voices—showed up the glim—and saw our man. Hodge, you are a good subject, and love justice."
"Yees, but I shall have the rewourd," said Hodge, showing his teeth.
"Talk o' that by and by," said the officer. "Will, how are you, man?"
"Bad," groaned the poor runner, and a rush of blood from the lips followed the groan.
It was many days before the ex-member for C——— sufficiently recovered the tone of his mind to think further of Alice; when he did, it was with great satisfaction that he reflected that Darvil was no more, and that the deceased ruffian was only known to the neighbourhood by the name of Peter Watts.