“Will you listen to a dying man?” he faintly asked.
“Whatever you have to say, tell it quickly,” she answered.
“Do not let your friends murder me. I shall die soon. Come nearer.”
Catherine felt herself greatly moved. “Fear not,” she said, and lightly sprang from her saddle. As she touched the ground, Nat Ernshaw and his men thundered up. “Harm him not!” almost commanded Catherine. “He has saved my life and is dying. Touch him not, I say!” The men were eager to saber him, it was plain.
“We will not,” replied Nat; and Kate bent over the dying man.
“I’m going,” said Turner, speaking hoarsely and quickly. “It’s hard, but it must be. It isn’t much for you to do, but I want you to say you forgive me.”
“For what?”
“It was me that carried you off.” Turner saw the fire flash in those eyes, and he continued, “I’ve been wicked—I loved money—but I loved you better and stronger than any thing else. It’s the only good in me, but that was made bad enough when your brother turned me out of the house. I hated him and Ernshaw. But I didn’t mean to let Preston harm you. I would have stolen you from him again. I was near when he was. If I could have made up my mind, I could have given the alarm when you first escaped. I loved you and myself, and hated every one else. Say you forgive me. I have done great wrong, but I’m sorry. Will you forgive?”
Touched more by his tone, so piteously pleading, than by his words, Catherine answered: “I do.”
“Let me take your hand,” he murmured.