The eternal life of torture in the lake of fire and brimstone in which he had never believed, either in its literal or in its metaphorical meaning.
And now he was too utterly debilitated in mind and body to know or to feel anything very clearly or deeply.
He relapsed into unconsciousness.
When he came to himself the next time he was able to think with a little more clearness, and to recollect with more correctness.
He remembered now that it was at Haymore Hall the “row” had occurred, in which he still believed he had been knocked down and had succumbed to his injuries, and had now waked up in the world of darkness, horror and despair, to wait for his final doom.
His final doom?
He moaned in his helplessness, not altogether from fear of future hell, but from a feeling of present thirst, intolerable even as the rich man suffered when he cried to Father Abraham to send Lazarus to dip his finger in water and cool his parched tongue.
When he had moaned a second time he felt the approach of some huge, dark form. It stood by him, it bent over him, put out a strong arm under his shoulders and lifted him, and placed a glassful of a refreshing beverage to his lips.
He drank and breathed more freely.
Ah! how delicious it was!