“Huish,” he said hoarsely. “You’ve given me—my death-blow—hope first—now my life.”
“No, no—no, no!” exclaimed Huish. “Can you bear for me to leave you now? I’ll run for help.”
“Stop,” exclaimed Millet, making an effort to rise, and sinking back with a groan of agony. “Stop! come closer.”
Huish obeyed, and held the flask once more to his lips, but it was pushed aside.
“Is this manslaughter or murder?” he said, with a bitter smile.
“I protest to heaven,” began Huish.
“Hush! Listen! That poor girl—Mary—now—quick, at once—swear to me by all you hold sacred—you will—at once—make her your wife.”
Millet’s face was ghastly pale, and he spoke with difficulty, but one hand now grasped the wrist of Huish with a firm hold, and his eyes were fixed upon those of the man who bent over him with feverish intensity.
“Yes, yes, I will—on my soul, I will,” cried Huish, with frantic vehemence. “Rob, old fellow, if I could undo—”
“You cannot. Quick, man; swear it—you will marry her—at once.”