It was about an hour later that the doctor went below to his other patient, to find him lying perfectly still and hardly breathing, so softly his pulsation seemed to rise and fall, while, faithful to his post, Rasp was by his side.
Lauré was evidently sleeping, and, after a brief examination, Mr Meldon turned thoughtfully away, for there were peculiarities in the case which he could not fathom.
As he reached the deck, he was touched on the shoulder, and, turning sharply, he found Rasp behind him.
“Is he going to die to-night, doctor, like t’other poor chap?”
“I can’t say, Rasp,” was the reply. “His case puzzles me. To-night he sleeps so easily that he seems to me better, and as if he were rallying fast.”
“Oh no, he ain’t,” said Rasp, shaking his head oracularly; “that’s the artfulness of his nature. He’s a-dying sharp.”
“How do you know?”
“’Cause I heerd him a muttering to hisself when he thought as I warn’t listening, and then he got talking to hisself in his foreign lingo; and when I came into sight again he began picking at his blanket.”
“May be,” said Mr Meldon, “but all the same, he is certainly better.”
“Yah! stuff!” ejaculated Rasp, as he descended to the cabin. “He’s dying fast, and it’s going to be to-night. I can feel it as plain as can be, poor chap. But he’s an out and out bad ’un, and only got what he deserves.”