‘Quick! Martha; more lights, and some brandy!’ said Harson, pushing past her. ‘Thank God! you’re not hurt, Annie! Come, Doctor, this poor devil is human,’ said he, pointing to Craig, who lay on the floor apparently dead. ‘Look to him; he breathes. I hear him.’
It needed no second appeal; for before he had finished, the Doctor had turned the robber over, opened his vest, and displayed a wound in his breast. He thrust his finger in it, and then looking up at Harry, shook his head.
‘He’s a case; must go!’
‘Poor fellow! God only knows what may have driven him to this. Help me to put him on the bed.’
Taking him in their arms, they placed him on the bed; and there they sat and watched him until the dawn of day. The bright sunshine came cheerily in at the window; the storm had passed, and the sky looked clear and blue, as if it had never been unruffled. And at that hour, and in that room, with the golden sunbeams streaming in, lay Tim Craig, his head pressed heavily back upon the pillow, bound round with a cloth dabbled in blood. His face was blackened and bruised, and his shirt and the bed-clothes stained with blood. His breath was short and heavy, and at times, gasping; his mouth half open, and his dull eye fixed with a heavy leaden stare at the ceiling. His race was nearly run. He seemed utterly unconscious of the presence of any one, until the door opened, and Harson, who had gone out, came in.
He went to the bed, and leaned over the burglar. As he did so, his shadow falling across the man’s face, attracted his attention, and he turned his heavy eye, and asked, in a husky voice:
‘Will I go? What does he say?’
Harson shook his head. ‘It’s almost over with you, my poor fellow; God help you!’
The man turned his head away and looked at the wall.
‘Do you understand me?’ said Harson, anxiously bending over him.