“In the little room beyond, sir. They put him there when he began to rave; but he's better now, and quite sensible.”
“Take me to him at once; let me see him,” said Skefif, whose impatience had now mastered all prudence.
The moment after, Skefif found himself in a small chamber, with a single bed in it, beside which a Sister of Charity was seated, busily employed laying cloths wet with iced water on the sick man's head. One glance showed that it was Tony. The eyes were closed, and the face thinner, and the lips dry; but there was a hardy manhood in the countenance, sick and suffering as he was, that told what qualities a life of hardship and peril had called into activity. The Sister motioned to Skefif to sit down, but not to speak. “He's not sleeping,” said she, softly, “only dozing.”
“Is he in pain?” asked Skefify.
“No; I have no pain,” said Tony, faintly.
Skefif bent down to whisper some words close to his ear, when he heard a step behind. He looked up and saw it was M'Caskey, who had followed him. “I came here, sir,” said the Colonel, haughtily, “to express my astonishment at your unceremonious departure, and also to say that I shall now hold myself as free of all further engagement towards you.”
“Hush, be quiet,” said Skefif, with a gesture of caution.
“Is that your friend?” asked M'Caskey, with a smile.
Tony slowly opened his eyes at these words, looking at the speaker, turning his gaze then on Skeff, gave a weak, sickly smile, and then in a faint, scarce audible voice, said, “So he is your godfather, after all.”
Skeff's heart grew full to bursting, and for a moment or two he could not speak.