“How is that? Remember she is my wife?” Hugh exclaimed with wrath.
“Yes—alas for you?”
“What do you mean?” asked he, gazing at him fixedly, half inclined to accept his words as the manifestation of approaching madness.
“You—you married her. Ah! I know how it was all brought about. It was an evil hour, an accursed day, when you tied yourself to her, for her murderous clique have made us both their victims. I meant to live and escape, so that I could bring upon her that merciless judgment she richly deserves, but I—I’m dying. Dieu! Give me water! Just one drop!” he implored piteously. “For the love of heaven give me Something to drink. My throat’s on fire. Can’t you see I’m choking?” he added in a husky, intense voice.
Hugh looked into the dying man’s face and shook his head sadly.
“Ah! none. I comprehend,” he moaned. Then, with a sudden fierceness, he cried: “I’m dying—dying. Ciel! I shall never have the satisfaction of witnessing her degradation, of seeing her white neck severed by Monsieur Deibler at La Roquette!”
“Tell me. What do you mean by victims?” inquired Trethowen breathlessly.
The astonishment at discovering the identity of his comrade had given him renewed strength.
Again the man passed his hand across his drawn, haggard face, and wiped the death-sweat from his brow.
“I haven’t the strength—to tell you all. Ah! water—for God’s sake give me water!”