“Dying,” said Jacob sternly, though in a voice that was scarcely audible. “What have you got there?” he added, almost fiercely, as he observed, and at once recognised, the bag in his visitor’s hand.
“Your property,” answered Jack. “Have you not missed it? I conclude, of course, that it has been stolen from you, because it was gambled away by a big rough fellow at Higgins’ store this evening.”
A peculiar smile flitted for a moment across the rugged face of Jacob Buckley as he said, “No, he didn’t steal it. Not being able to leave my brother myself, I sent him with it to the store, to try his luck. It was my last throw, contained all I had, includin’ the dust and nuggets you and your comrades sent me last night.”
He said this in a hard, reckless, defiant manner, then looked suddenly in Jack’s eyes, and inquired with an expression of curiosity how he came by the bag.
“I won it, God forgive me,” said Jack, a deep flush of shame overspreading his face, “and I now come to return what I had no right to win.”
A sound from the dying man attracted their attention at that moment.
“He wants to speak to you,” said Jacob, who had stooped down to listen.
Jack bent over the sick man, who said in a low whisper, with occasional pauses for breath, for his strength was almost gone.
“God bless you! You’ve saved his life. He said if he lost that gold that he’d blow out his brains—and he’d have done it—he would; I know Jacob—he’d have done it. Read to me—the Word—the only true gold.”
Jack looked round. Jacob had sat down, and again covered his face with his hands.