"I do, father, I do," cried the pallid sufferer.
"And an opportunity to repent of your sins. God bless you. Good-by."
The clergyman bowed to Shagarach and departed—from the deathbed to the wedding service, from the grave to the cradle of life, so wide was the compass of his ministrations.
"You are dying, then?" asked Shagarach.
"Wid a bullet in me breast, misthur, that the doctors can't rache. Och, they murdhered me wid their probin'. And all for what? All for nawthin'. What was I to be mixin' in their riots for? Wirrasthrue! Wirrasthrue!"
"You know Robert Floyd is in the prison here?"
"Robert Floyd! For the love o' heaven, misthur, don't tell him it's me. Tell him I'm Quirk. Och, that lie is a sin on me sowl."
"The truth will be best when you are so near death," said Shagarach, quietly. "Perhaps it would be better at all times. Besides, Mr. Floyd knows you are here."
"Misther," the dying man drew Shagarach toward him. "Misther! Do me a favor for the love o' doin' good."
"What is it?"