“Hah!” he cried, making a gesticulation, as if to cast aside his wife’s vain words; and then, with a sudden access of force that was startling, he caught at her hand.
“Sally, my lass,” he whispered harshly, “Gartram has murdered me.”
“Isaac, my poor husband, don’t say that.”
“It was all his doing. He always thwarted me, and interfered when I had to blast.”
“Pray, pray be still, dear. You are so bad and weak. The doctor said you were to be kept quiet, and not to talk.”
“Doctor knew it was all over. I am a dying man.”
“No, no, my darling.”
“Yes, I’ll say it, and more too while I have time. But for Gartram, I should be well and strong now. Oh, how I hate him! Curse him for a dog!”
“Isaac!—darling husband.”
“Yes; I always hated him, the oppressor and tyrant. He made me mad about blasting that bit of rock, and I felt I must do it—my way; but he bullied me till my hands were all of a tremble, and I was thinking about what he said till I wasn’t myself, and the stuff went off too soon. But it was his doing. He murdered me; and if it hadn’t been for him, I should have been right.”