He paused, gave out a hard breath, and suddenly struggled to get to his feet. The girl flew to him.
“What are you at?” she cried. “Oh! you will hurt yourself.”
His face was pale and bore a startled look.
“Help me up!” he muttered. “Nay, wench, I must—I must! ’Tis here, the villainous thing, in my hand!”
He held open his palm. A chalky lump was in it—a worthless-looking fragment.
“What is that but rubbish?” she said.
“Rubbish? Why, so it is, Betty, but ’tis the rubbish fools strangle one another to possess. I must go to him, the dying man. I was right. It has lain there thrown away while we were cutting throats. He must see it and know it before he passes. Good God! Betty, Betty, I must go to him, I say!”
He was so wild and impatient in his efforts to rise that she bent all trembling to help him, as the wiser policy.
“And will you be sick again,” she said, “and break my heart?”
“I should be sick to remain. There—I am up and steady. Give me your fine, firm arm, Betty, and lead me to his bed.”