“Mr. Harman,” said the priest, a good deal surprised, “who could have expected to find you here?”
They shook hands as he spoke, each casting his eyes upon this woeful scene of misery. “God pity them,” ejaculated the priest, clasping his hands, and looking upwards, “and sustain them!”
“I owe it to poor Raymond, here,” replied the other, “and I feel obliged to him; but,” said he, taking Father Roche over to the door, “here will be a double death—father and son.”
“Father and son, how is that?—she mentioned nothing of the son.”
“It is very possible,” said Harman, “that they are not conscious of his danger. I fear, however, that the poor boy has not many hours to live.”
All that we have just described, occurred in three minutes; but short as was the time, the wife's impatience to have the rites of the church administered, could scarcely be restrained; nor was poor Raymond's anxiety much less.
“They're comin',” said he, “Mr. Harman, they are comin'; hurry, hurry, I know what they'll do.”
“Who are coming, Raymond?” asked Harman. “Oh!” said the fool, “hurry—M'Clutchy's blood-hounds.”
The wife clapped her hands, shrieked, and falling on her knees, exclaimed in a piercing voice, “merciful God, look down on us! Oh, Father Roche, there is not a moment to be lost!”
The priest and Harman again exchanged a melancholy glance;—“you must all retire into the little room,” said the clergyman, “until I administer to him the last rites.”