"He spoil my home. He break me—I have my bill to settle here," he said in a voice hoarse and harsh. "It is so? It is so—eh? Spik!" he said to Bignold.
"Yes," came feebly from the shrivelled lips. "Water! Water!" the wretched man gasped. "I'm dying!"
A sudden change came over Grassette. "Water—queeck!" he said.
The Sheriff stooped and held a hatful of water to Bignold's lips, while another poured brandy from a flask into the water.
Grassette watched them eagerly. When the dying man had swallowed a little of the spirit and water, Grassette leaned over him again, and the others drew away. They realised that these two men had an account to settle, and there was no need for Grassette to take revenge, for Bignold was going fast.
"You stan' far back," said Grassette, and they fell away.
Then he stooped down to the sunken, ashen face, over which death was fast drawing its veil. "Marcile—where is Marcile?" he asked.
The dying man's lips opened. "God forgive me—God save my soul!" he whispered. He was not concerned for Grassette now.
"Queeck-queeck, where is Marcile?" Grassette said sharply. "Come back,
Bignold. Listen—where is Marcile?"
He strained to hear the answer. Bignold was going, but his eyes opened again, however, for this call seemed to pierce to his soul as it struggled to be free.