"No," answered John. "He is not hurt at all. Can you tell me who you are?" For his life, he could not help asking the question. It seemed so easy to find out who the fellow was, now that he could speak intelligibly. But Goddard's face contracted suddenly, in a hideous smile.
"Don't you wish you knew?" he said roughly. "But I know you, my boy, I know you—ha! ha! There's no getting away from you, my boy, is there?"
"Who am I?" asked John in astonishment.
"You are the hangman," said Goddard. "I know you very well. The hangman is always so well dressed. I say, old chap, turn us off quick, you know—no fumbling about the bolt. Look here—I like your face," he lowered his voice—"there are nearly sixty pounds in my right-hand trouser pocket—there are—Mary—ah—gave—M—a—"
Again his eyes fixed themselves and the moaning began and continued. John was horror-struck and stood for a moment gazing at his face, over which the deep flush had spread once more, seeming to obliterate all appearance of intelligence. Then the young man put his hand beneath Goddard's head and gently replaced him in his former position, smoothing the pillows, and giving him a little brandy. He debated whether or not he should call the squire from his rest to tell him what had happened, but seeing that Goddard had now returned to his former state, he supposed such moments of clear speech were to be expected from time to time. He sat down again, and waited; then after a time he went to the window and looked anxiously for the dawn. It seemed an intolerably long night.
But the day came at last and shed a ghastly grey tinge upon the sick-room, revealing as it were the outlines of all that was bad to look at, which the warm yellow candle-light had softened with a kindlier touch. John accidentally looked at himself in the mirror as he passed and was startled at his own pale face; but the convict, labouring in the ravings of his fever, seemed unconscious of the dawning day; he was not yet exhausted and his harsh voice never ceased its jarring gibber. John wondered whether he should ever spend such a night again, and shuddered at the recollection of each moment.
The daylight waked the squire from his slumbers, however, and before the sun was up he came out of the dressing-room, looking almost as fresh as though nothing had happened to him in the night. Accustomed for years to rise at all hours, in all weathers, unimpressionable, calm and strong, he seemed superior to the course of events.
"Well, Mr. Short, you allowed me a long nap. You must be quite worn out,
I should think. How is the patient?"
John told what had occurred.
"Took you for the hangman, did he?" said the squire. "I wonder why—but you say he asked after me very sensibly?"