“But what will you do with the sick woman, I mean his wife?” asked Phil, putting a glass of brandy to his lips, and winking at his father; “what will you do with the sick woman, I say?”
Val's face became so frightfully ghastly, and presented so startling a contrast between his complexion and black bushy brows, that even Phil himself got for a moment alarmed, and said:—
“My God, father, what is the matter?”
Val literally gasped, as if seeking for breath, and then putting his hand upon his heart, he said—
“Phil, I am sick here—”
“I see you are,”' said Phil, “but what is the matter, I say again? why are you sick?”
“Vengeance, Phil; I am sick with vengeance! The moment is now near, and at last I have it within my clutch;” and here he extended his hand, and literally made a clutch at some imaginary object in the air.
“Upon my honor,” said Philip, “I envy you; you are a fine, consistent old villain.”
“The sick woman, Phil! By the great heavens, and by all that they contain—if they do contain anything—I swear, that if every individual of them, men and women, were at the last gasp, and within one single moment of death—ha! hold,” said he, checking himself, “that would never do. Death! why death would end all their sufferings.”
“Oh, not all, I hope,” said Phil, winking again.