For answer Luke knelt down there in the mist, and poured a few drops of spirit from his flask between the wounded man’s lips.
He was about to rise, but Cyril uttered a painful sob and caught at his hand.
“I didn’t mean it,” he whispered, “I’m a bad one, and the words came. I’d say God bless you—but—no good—from me.”
Luke’s cold thin hand closed upon the labour-hardened palm of the wounded man, and he remained there kneeling with Sage, who held the other hand between both of hers, and gazed helplessly, and as if stunned, at her husband’s face.
“Glad—you came, Sage, once more,” he said. “Poor little widow!” he added, with a curious laugh.
“Had we not better get the prison doctor to you, Mallow?” said Luke.
“No good,” he replied. “The game’s up, man. I know. Sage—tell the old lady I thought about her—a deal. Have they found poor Ju?”
She stared at him still, for there was not one loving word to her—not one question about his children.
“Poor thing! Always petted me,” he gasped—“poor mother!”
Just then there were voices heard close at hand, the trampling of feet; and Cyril Mallow’s eyes seemed to dilate.