“Dyin’, dyin’—­no! no!” she wailed, clawing his sleeve.  “I ain’t fit to die—­cuss me; save me—­save me; I don’t know where I’d go to, s’elp me—­save me.”

The doctor tried to remove her hands, but she held on with wonderful tenacity.

“It is impossible,” he said briefly.

The hag fell back in her bed.

“I’ll give you money to save me,” she shrieked; “good money—­all mine—­all mine.  See—­see—­’ere—­suverains,” and tearing her pillow open, she took out a canvas bag, and from it poured a gleaming stream of gold.  Gold—­gold—­it rolled all over the bed, over the floor, away into the dark corners, yet no one touched it, so enchained were they by the horrible spectacle of the dying woman clinging to life.  She clutched some of the shining pieces, and held them up to the three men as they stood silently beside the bed, but her hands trembled so that sovereigns kept falling from them on the floor with metallic clinks.

“All mine—­all mine,” she shrieked, loudly.  “Give me my life—­gold—­money—­cuss ye—­I sold my soul for it—­save me—­give me my life,” and, with trembling hands, she tried to force the gold on them.  They said no word, but stood silently looking at her, while the two girls in the corner clung together, and trembled with fear.

“Don’t look at me—­don’t,” cried the hag, falling down again amid the shining gold.  “Ye want me to die,—­I shan’t—­I shan’t—­give me my gold,” clawing at the scattered sovereigns.  “I’ll take it with me—­I shan’t die—­G—­G—­” whimpering.  “I ain’t done nothin’—­let me live—­give me a Bible—­save me, G—­cuss it—­G—­, G—.”  She fell back on the bed, a corpse.

The faint light of the candle flickered on the shining gold, and on the dead face, framed in tangled white hair; while the three men, sick at heart, turned away in silence to seek assistance, with that wild cry still ringing in their ears—­“G—­save me, G—!”

CHAPTER XXVIII.

MARK FRETTLBY HAS A VISITOR.

According to the copy books of our youth, “Procrastination is the thief of time.”  Now, Brian found the truth of this.  He had been in town almost a week, but he had not yet been to see Calton.  Each morning—­or something very near it—­he set out, determined to go direct to Chancery Lane, but he never arrived there.  He had returned to his lodgings in East Melbourne, and had passed his time either in the house or in the garden.  When perhaps business connected with the sale of his station compelled his presence in town, he drove straight there and back.  Curiously enough he shrank from meeting any of his friends.  He felt keenly his recent position in the prisoner’s dock.  And even when walking by the Yarra, as he frequently did, he was conscious of an uneasy feeling—­a feeling that he was an object of curiosity, and that people turned to look at him out of a morbid desire to see one who had been so nearly hanged for murder.