“I' ll put it in the pocket of my cloak,” said the other, in a whisper; while he added, still more stealthily, “would n't you swear that he was looking at us this minute?” Classon started. The sick man's eyes were open, and their gaze directed towards them; while his lips, slightly parted, seemed to indicate a powerless attempt to speak. “No,” said Classon, in a scarcely audible whisper; “that is death.” “I declare I think he sees us,” muttered Driscoll. “And if he does, man, what signifies it? He's going where the knowledge will little benefit him. Have you everything safe and sure now? There, button your coat well up; we must start at once.” “May I never! if I can take my eyes off him,” said Driscoll, trembling. “You had better take yourself off bodily, my worthy friend; there's no saying who might chance to come in upon us here. Is not that a signet-ring on his finger? It would only be a proper attention to carry it to his mother, Driscoll.” There was a half-sarcasm about the tone of this speech that made it sound strangely ambiguous, as, stooping down, he proceeded to take off the ring. “Leave it there,--leave it there! it will bring bad luck upon us,” murmured Driscoll, in terror. “There is no such bad luck as not to profit by an opportunity,” whispered Classon, as he tried, but in vain, to withdraw the ring. A sharp, half-suppressed cry suddenly escaped him, and Driscoll exclaimed,-- “What is it? What's the matter?” “Look, and see if he has n't got hold of me, and tightly too.” The affected jocularity of his tone accorded but ill with the expression of pain and fright so written upon his features, for the dying man had grasped him by the wrist, and held him with a grip of iron. “That's what they call a dead man's grip, I suppose?” said Classon, in assumed mockery. “Just try if you cannot unclasp his fingers.” “I wouldn't touch him if you offered me a thousand guineas for it,” said Driscoll, shuddering. “Nonsense, man. We cannot stand fooling here, and I shall only hurt him if I try it with one hand. Come, open his fingers gently. Be quick. I hear voices without, and the tramp of horses' feet in the court below. Where are you going? You're not about to leave me here?” “May I never! if I know what to do,” muttered Driscoll, in a voice of despair. “And did n't I tell you from the first it would bring bad luck upon us?” “The worst of all luck is to be associated with a fool and a coward,” said Classon, savagely. “Open these fingers at once, or give me a knife and I 'll do it myself.” “The Lord forgive you, but you 're a terrible man!” cried Driscoll, moving stealthily towards the door. “So you _are_ going?” muttered Paul, with a voice of intense passion. “You would leave me here to take the consequences, whatever they might be?” Driscoll made no reply, but stepped hastily out of the room, and closed the door.