As the minister reached the door Gaspard, clinging to his son, sagged slowly down to the floor and lay white and gasping for breath. A hasty examination showed a wound in the side, from which blood was slowly trickling.
“Paul, take my horse and go for Colonel Pelham, and have him send for the doctor.”
Without a word Paul ran swiftly to the back of the house, found his pinto waiting, mounted and was off at top speed down the drive.
Within an hour, by a rare chance, the doctor was found and in attendance.
“How did this thing happen?” he inquired.
“Tell me, Doctor, is this the end?” said Gaspard, speaking as calmly as if asking about the weather. “Don’t lie to me, Doctor. You needn’t, you know. I know your professional tricks. ‘Keep the patient quiet,’ and all that stuff.”
“Gaspard, you have a chance, if you want to take it,” said the doctor, patting his patient on the arm.
“Doctor, I want to live—to try once more to make good—for the boy’s sake. But, Doctor, I have a queer feeling here.” He laid his hand on his heart. “I think I am done for, eh? What about it, old friend? The truth, Doctor. Only the truth will do. If I am going out I have some things to do while I can. Doctor, I am no coward.” His eyes were quietly searching the doctor’s face. There was in them deep concern but no fear. In the silence could be heard the ticking of the doctor’s big watch. The doctor’s face began to twitch.
“Thank you, Doctor, that will do. Now how long have I?”
“Three hours, perhaps six, Gaspard old man. You have a right to the truth,” said the doctor, taking himself in hand with a firm grip.