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But Jacek, sinking from the pillows into the bed, turned to the

Judge and grew more and more pale; he eagerly asked for the

parish priest, and cried to the Warden:-

"I implore you to remain; in a moment more I shall finish; hardly

have I strength to conclude-Warden-I shall die this night."

"What, brother?" cried the Judge, "I have seen your wound; it is

trifling: why do you say this? Send for the priest! Perhaps it

has been ill tended: I will send for the doctor; he is at the

apothecary's."

"It is too late, brother," interrupted the Monk. "In the same

place I have an earlier gunshot wound; I received it at Jena. It

was ill healed, and now it has been irritated-there is gangrene

there already. I am familiar with wounds; see how black the blood

is, like soot; a doctor could do nothing. But this is a trifle;

we die but once; to-morrow or to-day we must yield up our souls.

Warden, thou wilt forgive me; I must die!

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