“You have to thank your own indiscretion for what has happened," rejoined Ipgreve. “Had you kept a close tongue in your head, you would have been safe.”
“Can nothing be done to save me?” cried the miserable man, with an imploring look at the chirurgeon.
“Nothing whatever,” replied the person appealed to. “I would advise you to recommend your soul to God.”
“Will you not inform the lieutenant that I desire to speak with him?" demanded Tresham.
The chirurgeon glanced at Ipgreve, and receiving a sign from him, gave a promise to that effect.
They then quitted the cell together, leaving Tresham in a state of indescribable agony both of mind and body. Half an hour afterwards, the chirurgeon returned, and informed him that the lieutenant refused to visit him, or to hear his confession, and wholly discredited the fact of his being poisoned.
“I will take charge of your papers, if you choose to commit them to me," he said, “and will lay them before the Council.”
“No,” replied Tresham; “while life remains to me I will never part with them.”
“I have brought you a mixture which, though it cannot heal you, will, at least, allay your sufferings,” said the chirurgeon.
“I will not take it,” groaned Tresham. “I distrust you as much as the others.”