"Now you are proved to be innocent. In a very short time you will be free."
"Free? I shall be free?"
For a moment the dying man raised himself upright. His eyes flashed and his face glowed as if that thought of freedom had yet power to bring him back to life. Then he fell back again, and clasped his thin hands over his eyes.
"Too late," he muttered, "too late!"
Then he began to talk about things that belonged to that former life which seemed constantly present to his mind. He talked to himself at first in a half whisper; then, noticing Mr. Strafford, who still sat by his bedside, he took him for one of his former masters, and spoke to him in French.
"Mon père," he said, "pray do not be angry with us. We lost our way, and that is why we have been so long. The woods are green still, but the ground is soaked with rain, and it is hard to get through the bushes, and we are very tired."
A long sigh of weariness followed the words; and the prisoner fell into one of his frequent dozes.
So the great news had been told, and this was all its effect. Yes, Christian was right; it was too late. Clarkson's work had been well done; and his second victim was past all human aid.
Mr. Strafford sat and watched; and while he watched, he thought over all that he had known of the lives of these two, Christian and his wife, who now occupied his mind so fully. He was still thinking when the doctor came to pay his daily visit. The two had not met before, but each knew the other well by report; and to-day each was anxious to question the other on the same subject. Mr. Strafford, however, was most anxious, and began first.
"You know, of course," he said, "what I suppose all Cacouna is talking of. I want to know whether Clarkson's confession has really come too late?"