A light of thankfulness flickered in Clinton's eyes, and the pallid lips moved; and then as wife and friend, each holding a hand, waited for him to speak, there came the sound of a heavy sob. Convict 267 was kneeling and praying for the departing soul.
Slowly the minutes passed, the silence broken but by the creaking and straining of the ship as she rose and fell to the sea, and now and again the strange, mournful cry of some night-fishing penguin.
“Marion,” Clinton said at last, “I would like to speak to Adair before I die. He has been good to you and to me.”
Walking softly in his stockinged feet, Adair advanced close to the bed.
“Give me your hand, Adair. God bless you,” he whispered.
“And God bless you, sir, and all here,” answered the young Irishman in a husky, broken voice.
“Hush,” said the surgeon warningly, and his eyes sought those of the watching wife, with a meaning in them that needed no words. Quickly she passed her arm around Clinton, and let his head lie upon her shoulder. He sighed heavily and then lay still.
The surgeon touched the kneeling figure of Convict Adair on the arm, and together they walked softly out of the cabin.
“Come again in an hour, Adair,” said Dr. Williams; “you can help me best. We must bury him by daylight. Meanwhile you can get a little sleep.”
No. 267 clasped his hands tightly together as he looked at the doctor, and his lips worked and twitched convulsively. Then a wild beseeching look overspread his face. “For God's sake don't ask me!” he burst out. “I implore you as man to man to have pity on me. I cannot be here at daylight!”