“Mr. Cheviot, Mr. Cheviot, will you not make your peace with your Maker?” implored Presteign.
Cheviot had fallen back against his pillows, exhausted by his fit of passion, his eyelids dropping. The doctor stayed by him, his fingers counting the feeble pulse, his eyes watchful on the livid face. At the table Carlyon was writing steadily. Once he paused and looked thoughtfully at Cheviot, as if considering. Then his quill resumed its scratching.
Cheviot roused again from his stupor. “My will! Lights! I can’t see plain in this infernal darkness!”
“Gently! You shall sign your will in good time,” Carlyon said, not raising his head.
Cheviot peered across the room at him. “You’re there, are you?”
“Yes, I am here.”
“I always hated you,” Cheviot remarked conversationally.
“Mr. Cheviot, I most earnestly conjure you to put these thoughts out of your mind, and before it is too late to—”
“Leave him, man, for God’s sake!” Greenlaw said, under his breath.
“Yes, I always hated you,” repeated Cheviot. “I don’t know why.”