“Don’t yuh remember the shootin’ in the street? One of Sleed’s men shot yuh, Saint; but he paid damn well for it.”
“One of Sleed’s men? What men do you mean?”
It was not the voice of the old Saint. Gone was the deep, organ-like tone, and in its place was a harsh, rasping enunciation, toneless, colorless.
“You take it easy, old timer,” advised Duke. “We’ll get out of here first and talk afterwards.”
The Saint heard this indifferently, as his hand ran slowly through his great white beard, now streaked and clotted with blood. Across the room was a mirror in a rough frame, and his eyes traveled to this. He staggered over to it and peered at himself for several long moments.
He turned away and staggered against the wall, where he stared at Duke, wide-eyed.
“Who am I?” he breathed. “My God, who am I?”
His voice was almost a scream, and his hands clutched against the rough wall. There was no doubt in Duke’s mind but that the Saint had gone insane from his wound.