“She has sworn to do it. She has heard the message, and his days will come to an end as mine have come, and he will go on no longer in his wickedness, piling up riches. Ha! ha! ha! Thou fool—this night shall thy—wife—are you there?”
“Isaac! Husband!”
“Ah, yes. Good wife, my last words. Words from the other world. You will not rest till you have fulfilled your sacred task. I shall not rest till then—you—the chosen vessel—His wrath against the oppressor—as I have been—cut off—so shall Gartram be—cut off—yours the chosen hand, wife—quick—your hand—upon my head—you swear—that you will do my bidding—the bidding of—”
He paused, and she saw his eyes gazing wildly in hers, and it seemed as if the words she whispered were dragged from her—a voice within her seeming to utter them, and the belief that she was but the instrument of a great punishment upon a sinful man appeared to strengthen within her breast.
“Quick,” gasped the dying man; “your hand upon my head, wife—your lips close to me—let me hear you speak.”
“Isaac! Husband!” she groaned; “must I do this dreadful thing?”
“It is a message from—”
There was a terrible silence in the narrow chamber, and the dying man’s eyes were fixed upon hers as she laid her hand upon his brow and spoke firmly,—
“I swear.”
“Hah!”