“Which he certainly would refuse,” broke in Driscoll.
“Well, then, to possess myself of his papers, deeds, letters, whatever they were,—make away with them, or with any one holding them. Ay, Driscoll, it is sharp practice, my boy; but we 're just now in a land where sudden death dispenses with a coroner's inquest, and the keenest inquirer would be puzzled whether the fatal bullet came from a Russian rifle or a Croat carbine. Lend me a helping hand here, and I 'll pledge myself that you are well paid for it. Try and dodge me, and I'll back myself to beat you at your own game.”
“Here's an order for one of you gentlemen,” said an hospital orderly, “coming up to see Lieutenant Conway.”
“It is for me,” said Driscoll, eagerly; “I'm a relation of his.”
“And I am his family chaplain,” said Classon, rising; “well go together.” And before Driscoll could interpose a word, Paul slipped his arm within the other's and led him away.
CHAPTER XXXII. SHOWING “HOW WOUNDS ARE HEALED”
On a low little bed in a small chamber, once a cell of the Convent, Charles Conway lay, pale, bloodless, and breathing heavily. The surgeon's report of that morning called him “mortally wounded,” and several of his comrades had already come to bid him farewell. To alleviate in some measure his sufferings, he was propped up with pillows and cushions to a half-sitting posture, and so placed that his gaze could rest upon the open sea, which lay calm and waveless beneath his window; but even on this his eyes wandered vaguely, as though already all fixity of thought was fled, and that the world and its scenes had ceased to move or interest him. He was in that state of exhaustion which follows great loss of blood, and in which the brain wanders dreamily and incoherently, though ready at any sudden question to arouse itself to an effort of right reason.
A faint, sad smile, a little nod, a gesture of the hand, were tokens that one by one his comrades recorded of their last interview with him; and now all were gone, and he was alone. A low murmur of voices at his door bespoke several persons in earnest conversation, but the sounds never reached the ears of the sick man.
“He spoke of making a will, then?” said Classon, in a whisper.