Once, earlier in the
evening, he had recognised me and smiled faintly, but I had shaken my
head, and he had said nothing. Now, however, he was looking at me
earnestly. I did not speak. What he had to tell me was best told in his
own time.
At last he said faintly: "Marmion, shall I die soon?"
I knew that frankness was best, and I replied: "I cannot tell, Roscoe.
There is a chance of your living."
He moved his head sadly. "A very faint chance?"
"Yes, a faint one, but--"
"Yes? 'But'?" He looked at me as though he wished it over.
"But it rests with you whether the chance is worth anything. If you are
content to die, it is gone."
"I am content to die," he replied.
"And there," said I, "you are wrong and selfish. You have Ruth to live
for. Besides, if you are given the chance, you commit suicide if you do
not take it."
There was a long pause, and then he said: "You are right; I will live if
I can, Marmion."
"And now YOU are right." I nodded soothingly to him, and then asked him
to talk no more; for I knew that fever would soon come on.
He lay for a moment silent, but at length whispered: "Did you know it was
not a fall I had?" He raised his chin and stretched his throat slightly,
with a kind of trembling.
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