“Didn’t I say so!” cried Gurt, bringing his fist down on the table with a mighty thump. “Wot a man he is! Lord Nelsing and the Dook of Wellingtin were nothin’ to him—nothin’!”
In spite of the speed of the yacht, she was unable to reach Syra in time to save the life of the Demarch, for the stone from the volcano had so crushed in his chest, that internal hemorrhage had taken place, and there was no hope of saving his life. He revived, however, shortly after being taken on board, and was conscious to the last, not without some gleams of his former grim humor at the cause of his death.
“That ungrateful Melnos!” he said feebly, as he lay back in his berth, clasping his daughter’s hand; “I gave it bread, and it returns me a stone—a stone to crush me to death. Well, at all events it killed Andros, and of that I am glad.”
“Hush, hush, my dear friend!” said the Rector gently; “you must not talk like that. Forgive your enemies.”
“What! forgive that monster of ingratitude, who brought so many troubles on me, and ruined my schemes.”
“Yes,” said Carriston firmly; “the greater the sinner, the more need has he of forgiveness. If you forgive not your enemies their sins, how can you expect God to forgive you?”
“What about yourself, Rector?”
“I have no enemies,” replied Carriston, with great dignity; “but even if I had, I would forgive them freely.”
“Very well,” said the Demarch, with a cynical smile, which but ill became his pallid face; “I will put you to the test. Call in every one.”
Considerably puzzled at this remark, the Rector did as he was bidden, and in a short space of time, Maurice, Crispin, Mrs. Dengelton, and Eunice were gathered round the bed of the dying man. Helena still sat near him, holding his hot hand; and the Demarch, thus having got his audience together, began to make his last confession.