"—— it all! It's no good, Dale," he growled hoarsely. "I'm done. —— that horse! Give me something that'll end it quick!"
"Don't talk that way, man! You know I can't do that. We'll pull you through."
"To lie like a log for the rest of my life! I won't, I tell you. —— it, man, can't you understand I'd liefer go at once?"
"I'll bring you up a draught and you'll get some rest," said Dale soothingly.
"Rest! Rest! A dose of poison is all I want, —— you! Don't look at me like that, —— you!" to his wife, who stood watching with her hands tightly clasped as though to hold in her emotions. She walked away to the window and stood looking out.
"Carew, you—must—be—quiet. You're doing yourself harm," said the Doctor authoritatively.
"Man, I'm in hell. Poison me, and make an end!"
"Not till tomorrow, anyway. I'll run down and get that draught. We'll see about the other in the morning."
Mrs Carew turned as he left the room, and followed him out, and the sick man sank back with a groan and a curse.
"Will he die?" she asked quickly, as she closed the door behind them.