till he walked to
position."

The two reports were almost simultaneous. Mr. Oakhurst's right arm
dropped suddenly to his side, and his pistol would have fallen from
his paralyzed fingers; but the discipline of trained nerve and muscle
prevailed, and he kept his grasp until he had shifted it to the other
hand, without changing his position. Then there was a silence that
seemed interminable, a gathering of two or three dark figures where a
smoke-curl still lazily floated, and then the hurried, husky, panting
voice of Col. Starbottle in his ear, "He's hit hard--through the lungs
you must run for it!"

Jack turned his dark, questioning eyes upon his second, but did not
seem to listen,--rather seemed to hear some other voice, remoter in the
distance. He hesitated, and then made a step forward in the direction
of the distant group. Then he paused again as the figures separated, and
the surgeon came hastily toward him.

"He would like to speak with you a moment," said the man. "You have
little time to lose, I know; but," he added in a lower voice, "it is my
duty to tell you he has still less."

A look of despair, so hopeless in its intensity, swept over Mr.
Oakhurst's usually impassive face, that the surgeon started. "You are
hit," he said, glancing at Jack's helpless arm.

"Nothing--a mere scratch," said Jack hastily. Then he added with a
bitter laugh, "I'm not in luck to-day. But come: we'll see what he
wants."

His long, feverish stride outstripped the surgeon's; and in another
moment he stood where the dying man lay,--like most dying men,--the one
calm, composed, central figure of an anxious group. Mr. Oakhurst's face
was less calm as he dropped on one knee beside him, and took his
hand. "I want to speak with this gentleman alone," said Hamilton, with
something of his old imperious manner, as he turned to those about him.
When they drew back, he looked up in Oakhurst's face.

"I've something to tell you, Jack."

His own face was white, but not so white as that which Mr. Oakhurst
bent over him,--a face so ghastly, with haunting doubts, and a hopeless
presentiment of coming evil,--a face so piteous in its infinite
weariness and envy of death, that the dying man was touched, even in the
languor of dissolution, with a pang of compassion; and the cynical smile
faded from his lips.

"Forgive me, Jack," he whispered more feebly, "for what I have to say. I
don't say it in anger, but only because it must be said. I cou