“I am too feeble to talk,” replied Derrick Carver, sinking backwards.
“I have a potent elixir with me which will restore his natural forces,” said Malwood.
“Give me the phial. I will administer the dose,” cried Rodomont, pouring a few drops down the prisoner’s throat.
“Enough!—enough!” exclaimed Malwood, staying his hand.
“By the girdle of Saint Francis! it acts like magic,” cried Rodomont. “The colour is coming to his cheeks, and his eyes look brighter.”
“His pulse begins to beat firmly,” said Malwood. “He is now able to answer any question your Highness may desire to put to him,” he added to the Prince.
At a sign from Philip, Father de Castro here approached the litter.
“Who art thou?” demanded Derrick Carver, slightly raising himself, and regarding the priest sternly.
“I am the confessor of the Prince of Spain,” replied the other; “and lost as thou now art, steeped in sin, it will gladden me to reconcile thee to Heaven. Dire as is thine offence, and justly as it calls for condign punishment, I will strive to intercede for thee with his Highness, provided thou wilt make clean thy breast and recant thine errors.”
“Think not to move me,” replied Derrick Carver. “I have the stuff in me of which martyrs are made, as you will find. If I be doomed to a death of torture, Heaven will give me constancy to bear it. I grieve not for myself, but for my fellow countrymen, who have much bitter persecution to endure.”