"'Tis no business of mine," answered Neville; "but for myself I'd not like to die with a sin on my soul."
"No business of yours! Then—the—devil—did—not—tell—you."
The words came slower now, with little gasps between. Suddenly his glazing eye brightened a little. "A priest! a priest!" he repeated. Looking round, Neville saw Father White passing up and down rendering help and solace to the wounded. "Run and fetch him, Cecil!" he said.
The child plucked the good priest by the cloak. "Father, come, Father!" he said. "Ralph Ingle hath need of thee. He is dying and would fain confess."
Father White dropped the cup of water he was carrying, and coming to the side of the dying man knelt beside him.
"I think, after all, I won't tell," Ingle whispered. "Even this dead man had not heard it, and perhaps the devil himself has caught no word."
"Think not to escape so," said the priest; "the moments of time for thee are short, but the years of eternity are long, and through them all comes no chance such as lies before thee now to make some scant atonement by confession, and earn, perhaps, if not Heaven at least Purgatory, in place of Hell."
"Bah!" said Ralph Ingle, rousing himself to a touch of his old-time boldness, "'tis no use to strive to fright me with your ghostly threats. Perhaps the devil will send me up like Master Neville here to do his work on earth; that would be rare sport, to cut and thrust and be beyond the power of wounds." Here his head sank, and for a moment it seemed as he were gone, then the eyes opened again and the boyish smile curved his lips.
"Besides, 'tis no such great matter to kill a priest; there are so many of you, you know."
"So it was you!" cried Neville, with new interest in his voice and stooping he wet Ingle's lips with brandy from his flask. "Now," he said, "if you have the least spark of manhood in you, speak out. You killed Father Mohl?"