“No, Tim. This house and these lands are yours.”
His face seemed to flush at this.
“Is that so? are you sure?” said he. “As sure as that I am here.”
“And it is I who am heir to the estates?”
“It is. You are a rich man, for your father besides had land in England with your mother.”
Tim’s eyes were wide open. He lay silent for a time. “Barry, boy,” he said, now almost fainting for lack of blood, “we have always been brothers, haven’t we? even when we differed and fought when we were boys, eh? Nothing, nothing can unbrother you and me, Barry. I hand on all my rights to you and Kit—God bless ye both!”
His eyes closed wearily, but on his face there came again the happy smile of boyhood.
“Tim dear, shall I bring Kit down?—if, indeed, she is here.”
“No, Barry, no; this is no place to bring a lady to, nor am I in a condition to see any lady.”
As I looked at the blood-stained floor and table, and the walls which bore marks of the fray, I could not but agree with him. It was easy to see also that poor Tim’s moments were numbered. His eyes were sunk deep in his head, his face was pallid, and his breathing became more and more difficult. His lips moved in broken utterance, but I saw he was not addressing me; there was a far-off, unworldly expression in his eyes. I could hear him murmur,—