After some arrangements made for the night, the other attendant left me with the patient, who seemed unusually restless, and were it not for the large box in which his leg is confined, he certainly would have left the bed. I sought to soothe him, and it was only when I reopened the conversation of my former visit, that he seemed to forget his pain.
“You remarked,” said he, “that scepticism is often referable to some former error of life, and the sceptic is only seeking to hide his fears of consequences in another state of existence, by creating a belief that there is no other state.”
“That was the inference, if not the words of my remarks,” said I.
“Well, I have thought much of it since you left me, and I have wished for life to repair if possible some injuries which I have done to others. The very feverish condition in which I find myself, and which I heard the doctor say would be dangerous should it come, leads me to fear that I shall not be able to accomplish my wish; and struck with the peculiar expression of your face, and the coincidence of your name —”
“That is my mother’s name,” said I.
“But you were born in this town?”
I gave no answer.
“Nevertheless, I will yield to the suggestion which I have felt, if you will allow me, and show you that while I have greatly erred, and may refer my scepticism to my errors, I yet have sought to repair a part of the injuries I did in my youth.”
“If I heard your statement, should I be at liberty to tell my mother, because I do not like to hear anything which I may not communicate to her; and, of course, I could not tell, and she would not hear what was told to me in strict confidence?”
The captain reached his uninjured arm over the bed-side, and pressed my hand. I understood it to be a commendation of your instructions to me, and a consent that I should be at liberty to repeat what he said. But, oh, what a fever was scorching his skin.