Even in the present anxiety she thought of him, for his conduct seemed the only bright spot in the gloom of her thoughts; and she sincerely rejoiced that he had escaped unhurt.  Had any harm come to him, she would have been, if it were possible, more miserable than she now was.  But he was safe and sound, and doing his best to help her—­doing more than she knew, in fact, at that very moment.  There was at least something to be thankful for.

Goddard stirred again, and opened his eyes.

“Mary,” he said faintly, “they won’t catch me after all.”

“No, Walter,” said she, humouring him.  “Sleep quietly, for no one will disturb you.”

“I am going where nobody can catch me.  I am dying—­”

“Oh, Walter!” cried Mary Goddard, “you must not speak like that.  You will be better soon.  The doctor is expected every moment.”

“He had better make haste,” said the sick man with something of the roughness he had shown at their first meetings.  “It is no use, Mary.  I have been thinking about it.  I have been mad for—­for very long, I am sure.  I want to die, Mary.  Nobody can catch me if I die—­I shall be safe then.  You will be safe too—­that is a great thing.”

His voice had a strange and meditative tone in it, which frightened his wife, as she stood close beside him.  She could not speak, for her excitement and fear had the mastery of her tongue.

“I have been thinking about it—­I am not good for much, now—­Mary—­I never was.  It will do some good if I die—­just because I shall be out of the way.  It will be the only good thing I ever did for you.”

“Oh Walter,” cried his wife in genuine distress, “don’t—­don’t!  Think—­you must not die so—­think of—­of the other world, Walter—­you must not die so!”

Goddard smiled faintly—­scornfully, his wife thought.

“I daresay I shall not die till to-morrow, or next day—­but I will not live,” he said with sudden energy.  “Do you understand me, I will not live!  Bah!” he cried, falling back upon his pillow, “the grapes are sour—­I can’t live if I would.  Oh yes, I know all about that—­my sins.  Well, I am sorry for them.  I am sorry, Mary.  But it is very little good—­people always laugh at—­deathbed repentance—­”

He stopped and his thoughts seemed wandering.  Mary Goddard gave him something to drink and tried to calm him.  But he moved restlessly, though feebly.

“Softly, softly,” he murmured again.  “He is coming—­close to me.  Get ready—­now—­no not yet, yes—­now.  Ugh!” yelled Goddard, suddenly springing up, his eyes starting from his head.  “Ugh! the dog—­oh!”

“Hush, Walter,” cried his wife, pushing him back.  “Hush—­no one will hurt you.”

“What—­is that you, Mary?” asked the sick man, trembling violently.  Then he laughed harshly.  “I was off again.  Pshaw!  I did not really mean to hurt him—­he need not have set that beast at me.  He did not catch me though—­Mary, I am going to die—­will you pray for me?  You are a good woman—­somebody will hear your prayers, I daresay.  Do, Mary—­I shall feel better somehow, though I daresay it is very foolish of me.”