lie knew him
only as an old school-fellow, though to Leather he had been a friend and
chum ever since they had landed in the New World.

The scout, during the first interval of leisure on the previous day, had
extracted the ball without much difficulty from Buck's chest, through
which it had passed, and was found lying close under the skin at his
back. The relief thus afforded, and rest obtained under the influence
of some medicine administered by Captain Wilmot, had brightened the poor
fellow up to some extent; and Leather, seeing him look so much better on
his return, began to entertain some hopes of his recovery.

Buck himself had no such hope; but, being a man of strong will, he
refused to let it be seen in his demeanour that he thought his case to
be hopeless. Yet he did not act from bravado, or the slightest tincture
of that spirit which resolves to "die game." The approach of death had
indeed torn away the veil and permitted him to see himself in his true
colours, but he did not at that time see Jesus to be the Saviour of even
"the chief of sinners." Therefore his hopelessness took the form of
silent submission to the inevitable.

Of course Charlie Brooke spoke to him more than once of the love of God
in Christ, and of the dying thief who had looked to Jesus on the cross
and was saved, but Buck only shook his head. One afternoon in
particular Charlie tried hard to remove the poor man's perplexities.

"It's all very well, Brooke," said Buck Tom, "and very kind of you to
interest yourself in me, but the love of God and the salvation of Christ
are not for me. You don't know what a sinner I have been, a rebel all
my life--all my life, mark you. I would count it mean to come whining
for pardon now that the game is up. I _deserve_ hell--or whatever sort
o' punishment is due--an' I'm willing to take it."

"Ralph Ritson," said Brooke impressively, "you are a far greater sinner
than you think or admit."

"Perhaps I am," returned the outlaw sadly, and with a slight expression
of surprise. "Perhaps I am," he repeated. "Indeed I admit that you are
right, but--but your saying so is a somewhat strange way to comfort a
dying man. Is it not?"

"I am _not_ trying to comfort you. I am trying, by God's grace, to
convince you. You tell me that you have been a rebel all your days?"

"Yes; I admit it."

"There are still, it may be, a few days yet to run, and you are
determined, it seems, to spend these in rebell