"Upon my word as a man, you are dying," I replied.
"Well, death and me has met many times, and why should we fear each other? Let him come; he will not find me unprepared."
"But your peace with God?" I asked, earnestly.
"Look you, young man," the outlaw said, "for ten years I've led a life of crime; I've committed murders, and robbed all who crossed my path, and laughed at the agony of those I have rendered penniless. Do you think that God is willing to pardon sins on such short notice?"
"There is hope for all," I replied.
"You may think so, but I don't believe in that kind of mummery. Go away from me, and let me die in peace."
"But, consider," I urged.
He waved his hand impatiently, as though the conversation wearied him, and he wished to terminate it without farther discussion. I joined Murden, who was standing a short distance from the dying man, calmly smoking his pipe, and apparently indifferent to the remarks which his prisoner made.
"Has he been grumbling?" asked Murden.
"No, he appears to be rejoiced to think that he will cheat the courts of Melbourne of a victim, and declares that if a man is accused of being a bushranger, his death is scaled, whether innocent or guilty."