"I thought I'd give you your last sickness," said Peterson, with a shocking want of feeling.
"Oh! let me alone, I am dying!" wailed the miserable wretch.
All feelings except pity left the heart of Mansfield, as he saw the poor man in his last moments. He hastily ran back, and, seizing an ax, cut away the bushes around him, so that the air could reach him. It was then seen that he had received the bullet of Peterson in his side. He was leaning upon his elbow, spitting blood, while his hands closed rigidly over the wound, and the blood oozed through them and pattered upon the leaves beneath.
"Can I do anything for you?" asked Mansfield, kneeling down beside him and opening his hunting-shirt.
"Oh, no! I can't live long. I deserve to die, but I don't want to. I thought—"
He paused as the blood in his throat choked him. Peterson and Dingle were both touched by his misery, and silently withdrew, followed shortly by Jenkins. Mansfield saw that he was alone, and determined to do his duty to the dying man.
"McGable, you are dying, it is true. Put away now all thoughts of this world, and turn your heart toward the hereafter. Your sins are great, but there is a God whose mercy is sufficient for everything."
"Do not talk of God and mercy to me," said the man with a look so full of horrible torment, that Mansfield shuddered to his very soul. "The day of mercy has passed with me. A thousand years could not atone for the crimes I have committed. If you can forgive me, Mansfield—"
"I forgive you all, and so does Abbot—fear nothing of that."
"I have harmed you and him more than you have dreamed. Oh! this wound! Can you not stay the flow?"