“Who is that who was thanking God because there was hope of my life?” reiterated Ralph. “Neither man nor woman has any cause to do that, I'm sure; while some have cause enough to pray that I were dead already, or at least had lost my wits. Doctor--for I suppose you _are_ a doctor--have I lost my wits or not? Am I a sane man, or one not in my right mind?” “Hush, hush; you are sane enough of course, except to keep on talking thus when I tell you that to speak is to do yourself the most serious harm.” “You hear him--all you in the room here,” continued the sick man in a voice which, though low and feeble, had a sort of malignant triumph in it, which grated on the ear. “This doctor says I am quite sane. He says also that there is hope of my life--just a shadow of a hope. He is wrong there, for I shall die. But, anyhow, I lie in peril of death, and yet in my right mind. Therefore, what I say is to be credited--that, I believe, is the law; and even the law is right sometimes. What I am about to say is Truth--every word of it. I wish to make a statement.--No, I will take no medicines; pen and ink, if I could only write, would be more welcome than the Elixir of Life, but I cannot.” Here a groan was wrung from his parched and bloodless lips. “O Heaven! the pain I suffer; it is the foretaste of the hell for which I am bound!” “O sir,” ejaculated Mistress Forest, moving to the bed foot, so as to shew herself to his staring eyes, “think of heaven, not of hell. Ask for pardon of God, and not of revenge upon man.” “Ah, it is you, is it, good wench? I thought that no one else could have wished me well so piously a while ago. You did me an ill turn, although you did not mean to do so, when you let me out of the Cage last night. Was it last night, or a week, or a month ago?” “It was only last night,” interposed the doctor gravely. “Now, do not ask any more questions, or I shall have to forbid them being answered. It is my duty to tell you that with every word you speak your life is ebbing away.” “Then there is the less time to lose,” answered Derrick obstinately. “As for answering me, I do not want that. All I ask of you is, that you shall listen; and what I say, I charge you all, as a dying man, to remember--to repeat--to proclaim.” Here he paused from weakness.--“Doctor,” gasped he, “a glass of brandy--a large glass, for I am used to it. I _must_ have it.--Good. I feel stronger now. Do you think, if you took down my words in writing, that I could manage”--here a shudder seemed to shake his poor bruised and broken frame, as though with the anticipation of torture--“to set down my name at the bottom of it?” “No, my poor fellow--no. You could no more grasp a pen at present than you could rise and leave this house upon your feet. You must feel that yourself.”