“Where is the man that shot me?” he shrieked, pulling a dirk from his belt.
“No, no, my man,” said the surgeon; “you should think of something else now instead of vengeance.”
“But—but—” the rest of his sentence was inaudible.
Just then the crowd parted to make way for two newcomers, who were drenched with rain. They were Edgar Sherwood and Imogene Lear.
“Maurice!” said Edgar in a low tone, approaching the dying man.
“Great God!” said Iron Hand. “It is he! it is he! I know that voice! Oh! oh! he will kill me, and I can not move. Let me escape—hide me, for I shot him once. I have been his evil shadow all his life!” and he struggled violently to raise himself.
“He raves,” said the surgeon; “we must get that dagger from him, or he may do some mischief.”
But just then the madman dropped the weapon upon the floor.
His face was distorted with agony; his glassy eyes were fixed apparently on some distant object.
“Look! look!” he whispered, pointing to a window at the further end of the room.