“Where from?”
“From the prison. A shout would bring the warders.”
“I hear what you say,” cried Cyril, fiercely. “Sage, that man is going to betray me to those blood-hounds.”
“Luke!” cried Sage, who was almost mad with grief.
“There is no surgical help to be got but from the prison,” said Luke, calmly. “I proposed to send for it by the warders.”
“Too late,” said the injured man, in a low voice. “Fifty surgeons could not save me now. Let me be.”
“What shall I do?” whispered Luke.
“Poor fellow! We had better call the men.”
“It would kill him,” groaned Luke; and he stood hesitating, Cyril watching him the while with a sneering laugh upon his lips.
“It’s a sovereign reward, lawyer,” he said, faintly. “Are you going to earn it?”