CHAPTER XXXVI.

In a dark small room, high up in the back part of one of the houses in

the lower town of Nottingham, with the wall covered on one side by

rough oak planking, and having on the other the sharp slope of the

roof; on a wretched truckle bed, with a small table and a lamp beside

it, lay the tall and powerful form of a wounded man, with languor in

his eyes, and burning fever in his cheek.

On a stool at the other side sat Richard de Ashby, looking down upon

him with a countenance which did not express much compassion, but on

the contrary bore an angry and displeased look; and, while he gazed,

his hand rested upon his dagger, with the fingers clutching, every now

and then, at the hilt, as if with a strong inclination to terminate his

companion's sufferings in the most speedy manner possible.

"It was madness and folly," he said--"I repeat, it was madness and

folly to bring you here into the very midst of dangers, when I showed

you clearly how to shape your course."

"We saw a party of horse upon the bridge, I tell you," replied Dighton,

for he it was who lay there, with the punishment of one of his evil

deeds upon him, "and could not find a ford. But, in the name of the

fiend, do not stand here talking about what is done and over; let me

have 'tendance of some kind. Send for a leech, or fetch one."

"A leech!" cried Richard de Ashby, "the man's mad! There is none but

the one at the court to be found here. Would you have the whole story

get abroad, and be put to death for the murder?"

"As well that, as lie and die here," answered Dighton. "Why I tell

thee, Dickon, I feel as if there were a hot iron burning through me

from my breast to my shoulder, and every throb of my heart seems to

beat against it, and add to the fire. I must have some help, man!--If

thou art not a devil, give we some water to drink. I am parched to

death."

Richard de Ashby walked thoughtfully across the room, and brought him a

cup of water, pausing once as he did so, to gaze upon the floor and

meditate.

"I will, tell thee what, Dighton," he said, "thou shalt have 'tendance.

Kate here, it seems, saw them bring thee in. She is a marvellous leech;

and when I was wounded up by Hereford at the time of the Prince's

escape, she was better than any surgeon to me. She shall look to thy

wound; but mind you trust her not with a word of how you got it; for a

woman's tongue is ever a false guardian, and hers is not more to be

depended on than the rest."

"Well," answered the man, discontentedly, "anything's better than to

lie here in misery, with nobody to say a word to; I dare say you would

as soon see me die as live."

"No," replied Richard de Ashby, with a bitter smile, "I should not know

what to do with the corpse."

"I thought so," said Dighton, "for I expected every minute, just now,

that your dagger would come out of the sheath. But I have strength

enough still left, Dickon, to dash your brains out against the wall, or

to strangle you between my thumbs, as men do a partridge; and I do not

intend to die yet, I can tell you. But come, send this girl quick; and

bid her bring some healing salve with her. There is a quack-salver

lives at the top of the high street; he will give her some simples to

soften the wound and to take out the fire."

"I will see to it--I will see to it," replied Richard de Ashby, "and

send her to you presently. I cannot visit you again to-night, for I

must away to the castle, but to-morrow I will come to you."

Thus saying, he quitted the wretched room, and closed the door after

him. The wounded man heard the key turn in the lock, and murmured to

himself--"The scoundrel! to leave me here a whole night and day without

help or 'tendance; but if I get better, I'll pay him for his care--I'll

break his neck, or bring him to the gallows. I surely shall live--I

have been wounded often before, and have always recovered,--but I never

felt anything like this, and my heart seems to fail me. I saw worms and

serpents round me last night, and the face of the girl I threw into the

Thames up by the thicket,--it kept looking at me, blue and draggled as

when she rose the last time. I heard the scream too!--Oh yes, I shall

live--'tis nothing of a wound! I have seen men with great gashes--twice

as large. Ha! there is some one coming!" and he started and listened as

the lock was turned, and the door opened.

The step was that of a woman, and the moment after, Kate Greenly

approached his bed-side. Her fair face was pale, her lips had lost

their rosy red, her cheek had no longer the soft, round fulness of high

health; and though her eye was as lustrous and as bright as ever, yet

the light thereof was of a feverish, unsteady, restless kind. There

was a sort of abstracted look, too, in them. It seemed as if some

all-engrossing subject in her own heart called her thoughts continually

back from external things, whenever she gave her mind to them for a

moment.

Walking straight to the bed, and still holding the lamp in her hand,

she gazed full and gravely upon Dighton's face; but the brain was

evidently busy with other matters than that on which her eyes rested;

and it was not till the wounded man exclaimed, impatiently--"Well, what

do you stare at?" that she roused herself from her fit of abstraction.

"He has sent me," she said, "to tend some wounds you have received, but

I can do you little good. The priest of our parish indeed gave me some

small skill in surgery; but methinks 'tis more a physician for the soul

than for the body that you want."

"That is no affair of thine," replied the man, sharply--"look to my

wound, girl, and see if thou hast got any cooling thing that will take

the fire out, for I burn, I burn!"

"Thou shalt burn worse hereafter," said Kate, sitting down by his

bed-side; "but show me the hurt, though methinks 'tis of little avail."

"There," cried the man, tearing down the clothes, and exposing his

brawny chest, "'tis nothing--a scratch--one may cover it with a finger;

and yet how red it is around, and it burns inwardly, back to my very

shoulder."

Kate stooped her head down, and held the lamp to the spot where the

sword of the old Earl of Ashby had entered, and examined it attentively

for a full minute. As the man had said, it was but a small and

insignificant looking injury to overthrow the strength of that robust

form, and lay those muscular limbs in prostrate misery upon a couch of

sickness, as feeble as those of an infant. You might indeed have

covered the actual spot with the point of a finger; but round about it

for more than a hand's breadth on either side, was a space of a deep

red colour, approaching to a bluish cast as it came near the wound. It

was swollen; too, though not much, and one or two small white spots

appeared in the midst of that fiery circle.

When she had finished her examination, she raised her eyes to the man's

face, and gazed on it again, with a look of grave and solemn thought.

"Art thou in great pain?" she said.

"Have I not told you," he answered, impatiently--"it is hell."

"No," she replied, shaking her head, "no, 'tis nothing like hell, my

friend. Thou mayest some time long to be back again there, on that bed,

writhing under ten such wounds as this, rather than what thou shalt

then suffer. But thou wilt be easier soon. Seest thou that small black

spot upon the edge of the wound?"

"Ay," he answered, looking from the wound to her face with an inquiring

glance--"what of that?--Will that give me ease?"

"Yes," she replied, "as it spreads.--Art thou a brave man? Dost thou

fear death?"

"What do you mean, wench?" he cried, gazing eagerly in her face, "Speak

out--you would drive me mad!"

"Nay," she replied, "I would call you back to reason. You have been mad

all your life, as well as I, and many another!--Man, you are dying!"

"Dying!" he exclaimed, "dying!--I will not die! Send for the

surgeon--he shall have gold to save me.--I will not--I cannot die!" and

he raised himself upon his elbow, as if he would have risen to fly from

the fate that awaited him.

He fell back again the moment after, however, with a groan; and then,

looking anxiously in the girl's face, he said, "Oh, save me--I cannot

die--I will not die in this way! Send for a surgeon--see what can be

done!"

"Nothing!" replied Kate. "If all the surgeons in England and France

were here, they could do nothing for thee. The hand of death is upon

thee, man!--The gangrene has begun. Thou shalt never rise from that bed

again--thou shalt never feel the fresh air more--thou art no longer

thine own--thou art Death's inheritance--thy body to the earth, thy

spirit to God that gave it, there to render an account of all that thou

hast done on earth.--Think not I deceive thee!--Ask thine own heart

Dost thou not feel that death is strong upon thee?"

"I do," groaned the man, covering his eyes with his hand. "Curses be

upon my own folly for meddling with this scheme! Curses be upon that

foul fiend, Dickon of Ashby, for bringing me into it, and leaving me

here till it is too late--till the gangrene has begun!--Curses upon

him!--and may the lowest pit of hell seize him for his villany!"

"Spare your curses," said Kate, "they can only bring down fresh ones

upon your own head. Think upon yourself now, poor wretch!--think

whether, even at this last hour, you may not yet do something to turn

away the coming anger of God!"

"God!" cried the man--"shall I see God?--God who knows all things--who

has beheld all I have done--who was near when--Oh! that is

terrible--that is terrible, indeed!"

"It is terrible, but true," replied Kate; "but there is hope, if thou

wilt seek it."

"Hope!" exclaimed the man, mistaking her--"hope! Did you not tell me I

must die?"

"Ay, your body," replied Kate, "'tis your soul that I would save. A

thief obtained pardon on the cross. God's mercy may be sued for till

the last."

"But how--how?" cried he, "I know naught of prayers and paternosters.

'Tis twenty years since, when a beardless stripling, I got absolution

for stealing the King's game;--and what have I not done since? No, no,

there is no hope! I must die as I have lived! God will not take off his

curse for aught I can say now! If I could live, indeed, to undo what I

have done--to fast, and pray, and do penance--then, in truth, there

might be a chance."

"There is still hope," answered Kate--"thou hast still time to make a

great atonement. Thou hast still time to save thy soul. God, as if by

an especial mercy, has provided the means for you to cancel half your

wickedness. I know all the tale: thou hast slain a poor old man, that

never injured thee: but I tell thee that another is accused of his

murder--an innocent man, who--"

"I know! I know!" cried Dighton, interrupting her, "'tis all his

fiendish art!" And then, gazing in her face for a moment, he added,

"but why talkest thou to me of repentance?--why preachest thou to me,

girl, and dost not practise thine own preaching? Art not thou a sinner,

too, as well as I am, ha?--and do not they tell us that the soft sins

damn as surely as the rough ones? Why dost thou not repent and make

atonement?"

"I do," said Kate, firmly; "at this very hour I am aiming at nought

else. Thinkest thou that I love that man? I tell thee that I hate

him--that I abhor the very sight of his shadow, as it darkens the

door--that the touch of his very hand is an abomination. But I abide

with him still to frustrate his dark deeds--to protect those that are

innocent from his fiendish devices--to give him to the arm of

justice--and then to lay my own head in the grave, in the hope of God's

mercy."

"But who tells thee thou shalt find it?" asked Dighton.

"God's word," replied Kate, "and a good priest of the holy church, both

tell me that, if, sincerely repenting, I do my best to make up for all

that I have done amiss--if, without fear and favour, I labour to defend

the innocent even at the expense of the guilty, I shall surely obtain

mercy myself in another world, though I wring my own heart in this."

"Did a priest say so?" demanded Dighton, looking up, with a ray of hope

breaking across his face--"send for that priest, good girl!--send for

that priest!--quick! He may give me comfort!"

Kate paused for a moment, without reply, gazing down upon the ground,

and then said, "'Twould be hard to keep thee from the only hope of

forgiveness, yet----"

"Yet what?" exclaimed he, impatiently. "In God's name, woman, I adjure

thee----"

"Wilt thou do what the priest bids thee do?" demanded Kate.

"Yes--yes!" cried he--"I will do all sorts of penance!"

"Even if he tells thee," continued Kate, "to make such a

confession----"

"Ay, ay," said the man, "that's what I want--I want to confess."

"Nay, but," replied Kate Greenly, "not a mere confession to the ear of

the priest, buried for ever under his vow, but such a confession as may

save the innocent--as may bring the guilty to justice--as may declare

who was the murderer, and who instigated the murder?"

"No," cried the man, "I will not betray Ellerby. As to Richard de

Ashby, if I could put a stone upon his head to sink him deeper into

hell, I would do it,--but I wont betray my comrade."

"Well, then," said Kate Greenly, "you must even die as you have

lived.--I can do nothing for you."

"Get thee gone, then, harlot!" cried the man. "If thou art not a fiend,

send me a priest!"

Kate Greenly's eye flashed for a moment at the coarse name he gave her,

and her cheek burnt; but the next instant she cast down her gaze again,

murmuring, "It is true!" Then turning to the wounded man, she said, "I

mind not thy harsh words; but it is needless for me to seek a man of

God, unless thou wilt promise to do what I know he will require before

he gives thee absolution. I promised to let no one see thee at all. To

send for any one I must break my promise, and I will not do so for no

purpose. Wilt thou do what the priest tells thee, even if it be to make

public confession of who did that deed?"

"No," cried the man, "I will not betray him! Get thee gone, if thou

wilt!--Curses upon you all!"

Kate moved towards the door, but turned ere she went, and said, "I am

in the chamber beneath! Think well what it is to go into the presence

of God unrepenting and unabsolved--to meet all that thou hast injured,

and all that thou hast slain, accusing thee at the high throne above,

without the voice of a Saviour to plead for thee! Think of all this, I

say; and if thy heart turn, and thou wilt resolve to do an act of

atonement and repentance, strike on the ground with thy sword, it

stands at thy bedhead; and I will come to thee with the best physician

that thou cant now have. One that can cure the wounds of the spirit."

The man glared at her without reply, and Kate Greenly passed out,

closing and locking the door. She paused at the stairhead, and clasped

her hands, murmuring, "What shall I do?--He must not die without

confession.--He must have consolation--Perhaps Father Mark might

persuade him. But he will last till morning. 'Tis now near eight; I

will wait awhile--solitude is a great convincer of man's heart." And,

descending the stairs, she entered the room below.

Half an hour passed without the least sound, and Kate sat gazing into

the fire, unable to occupy herself with any indifferent thing. The time

seemed long; she began to fear that the murderer would remain obdurate,

and she had risen, thinking it would be better to send for Father Mark

at once. She had scarcely taken three steps towards the door, however,

when there was a stroke or two upon the floor above, and then the

clanging fall of some piece of metal, as if the heavy sword had dropped

from the weak hands of the wounded man.

Kate ran up with a quick foot, descended again in a few minutes, and,

ere half an hour was over, a venerable man, with silver hair, was

sitting by the bed of death; and Kate Greenly kneeling with paper

before her, writing down the tale of Dighton's guilt from his own lips.