The child plucked the good priest by the cloak. "Father, come, Father!" he said. "Ralph Ingle hath need of thee. He is dying and would fain confess." Father White dropped the cup of water he was carrying, and coming to the side of the dying man knelt beside him. "I think, after all, I won't tell," Ingle whispered. "Even this dead man had not heard it, and perhaps the devil himself has caught no word." "Think not to escape so," said the priest; "the moments of time for thee are short, but the years of eternity are long, and through them all comes no chance such as lies before thee now to make some scant atonement by confession, and earn, perhaps, if not Heaven at least Purgatory, in place of Hell." "Bah!" said Ralph Ingle, rousing himself to a touch of his old-time boldness, "'tis no use to strive to fright me with your ghostly threats. Perhaps the devil will send me up like Master Neville here to do his work on earth; that would be rare sport, to cut and thrust and be beyond the power of wounds." Here his head sank, and for a moment it seemed as he were gone, then the eyes opened again and the boyish smile curved his lips. "Besides, 'tis no such great matter to kill a priest; there are so many of you, you know." "So it was you!" cried Neville, with new interest in his voice and stooping he wet Ingle's lips with brandy from his flask. "Now," he said, "if you have the least spark of manhood in you, speak out. You killed Father Mohl?" Ralph Ingle moved his head in assent. "How?" "Speak!" exhorted Father White; "though thou be the chief of sinners, speak and trust in the mercy of the Lord who died to save such." "But I'm--not--the--chief--of--sinners--'Twas the knife did it--the knife in the panther's throat." "You found it?" A nod. "You were on your way from St. Mary's to St. Gabriel's?" Nod. "What for?" "To stay with Brent--I promised Dick." Father White spoke low: "At least he was true to some one. Remember it, O Lord, when thou dost count up the sum of his transgressions!" "Ay, 'twas Dick suggested it, so he and I feigned a quarrel before the gossips on the deck, and then I set out alone--More brandy--I cannot speak." Again Neville knelt beside him and poured the brandy down his throat. Under the stimulant Ingle revived and moved as if he would sit up, but Father White stayed him. "Waste not an inch of thy strength," he said, lifting his head, "but use it to save thy soul. Didst thou quarrel with Father Mohl?" "Ay, 'twas his fault--I was singing a tavern song to cheer me, when I met old shaven-crown--Nay, God forgive me, the holy father-- "'Good evening,' says I. "'God have mercy on your soul!' saith he. "'That's between Him and me,' says I, and then he must needs answer back in Latin--I had borne to be damned in English and never raised a finger; but to be called names in an outlandish foreign tongue was too much!"