Captain Duncan shook his head sadly.
Charles again opened his eyes, which he had closed as sharp pains shot through him. The cold drops of agony which stood on his forehead his friend wiped gently away.
“Yes, I must die,” whispered he again to Hilary; “I know it; this pain will only cease when mortification begins. I must die; and I am thankful for it. I do not deserve it; a long life of penitence and sorrow would have been my fitting fate; I have no right even to ask for a speedy release. But for you, for others, it is better I should go; if I could only repair my mad folly, my savage wickedness; if I could only, in giving Dora liberty, give her back the reason I frightened away; oh, I would suffer twenty times more pain, could I restore her to you, Maurice, as she was.”
“God’s will be done!” said Maurice, gravely; “He gave, He took away! Since she has been your wife, Charles, she has ceased to be the Dora of my fancy.”
“You are weeping for me Hilary—how many tears I have made you shed. I do not deserve one gentle thought: it was in mercy, undeserved mercy, you were sent here, that I might hear you say you forgive me.”
“I do, indeed, from my soul.”
“And if you do, you, who might have felt resentment—a fellow mortal—I hope—I trust—I believe the Most High will hear my penitence—and for that dear love which died for us all—” his voice failed him again, in a fit of agonizing pain, terrible to see.
The injuries had been principally internal, and during the hours which had passed before medical aid was procured, inflammation
had commenced, which it was now evident must end in death.
“Leave me,” said he, when he again had power to speak; “leave me, Hilary, I do not deserve to give you pain; you suffer in seeing me suffer.”