His long, feverish stride outstripped the surgeon's; and in another moment he stood where the dying man lay,—like most dying men,—the one calm, composed, central figure of an anxious group. Mr. Oakhurst's face was less calm as he dropped on one knee beside him, and took his hand. “I want to speak with this gentleman alone,” said Hamilton, with something of his old imperious manner, as he turned to those about him. When they drew back, he looked up in Oakhurst's face.
“I've something to tell you, Jack.”
His own face was white, but not so white as that which Mr. Oakhurst bent over him,—a face so ghastly, with haunting doubts, and a hopeless presentiment of coming evil,—a face so piteous in its infinite weariness and envy of death, that the dying man was touched, even in the languor of dissolution, with a pang of compassion; and the cynical smile faded from his lips.
“Forgive me, Jack,” he whispered more feebly, “for what I have to say. I don't say it in anger, but only because it must be said. I could not do my duty to you, I could not die contented, until you knew it all. It's a miserable business at best, all around. But it can't be helped now. Only I ought to have fallen by Decker's pistol, and not yours.”
A flush like fire came into Jack's cheek, and he would have risen; but Hamilton held him fast.
“Listen! In my pocket you will find two letters. Take them—there! You will know the handwriting. But promise you will not read them until you are in a place of safety. Promise me.”
Jack did not speak, but held the letters between his fingers as if they had been burning coals.
“Promise me,” said Hamilton faintly.
“Why?” asked Oakhurst, dropping his friend's hand coldly.
“Because,” said the dying man with a bitter smile,—“because—when you have read them—you—will—go back—to capture—and death!”