"Ay!" said Driscoll, knowingly.

"Now, which of us is to do the job, Driscoll? That's the question. I have my claim to see him, as chaplain to the--I 'm not sure of the name of what branch of the service--we'll say the 'Irregular Contingent'

Legion. What are you, my respected friend?"

"A connection of the family, on the mother's side," said Terry, with a leer.

"A connection of the family!" laughed out Classon. "Nothing better."

"But, after all," sighed Terry, despondingly, "there's another fellow before us both,--that chap had brought out the news to the camp, Mr.

Reggis, from the house of Swindal and Reggis."

"He's cared for already," said Classon, with a grin.

"The Lord protect us! what do you mean?" exclaimed Driscoll, in terror.

"He wanted to find his way out here last night, so I bribed two Chasseurs d'Afrique to guide him. They took him off outside the French advance, and dropped him within five hundred yards of a Cossack picket, so that the worthy practitioner is now snug in Sebastopol. In fact, Driscoll, my boy, I 'm--as I said before--an ugly antagonist!"

Terry laughed an assent, but there was little enjoyment in his mirth.

"The girl,--one of those hospital ladies," continued Classon,--"a certain Miss Kellett, is also a prisoner."

"Miss Kellett!" cried Driscoll, in amazement and terror together. "I know her well, and if she's here she 'll outwit us both."

"She's in safe hands this time, let her be as cunning as she will. In fact, my dear Driscoll, the game is our own if we be but true to each other."

"I 'm more afraid of that girl than them all," muttered Driscoll.

"Look over those hills yonder, Driscoll, and say if that prison-house be not strong enough to keep her. Mr. Reggis and herself are likely to see Moscow before they visit Cheapside. Remember, however, if the field be our own, it is only for a very brief space of time. Conway is dying.

What is to be done must be done quickly; and as there is no time for delay, Driscoll, tell me frankly what is it worth to you?" Terry sneezed and wiped his eyes, and sneezed again,--all little artifices to gain time and consider how he should act.

"My instructions are these," said Classon, boldly: "to get Conway to sign a bond abdicating all claim to certain rights in lieu of a good round sum in hand; or, if he refuse--" S.

"Which he certainly would refuse," broke in Driscoll.

"Well, then, to possess myself of his papers, deeds, letters, whatever they were,--make away with them, or with any one holding them. Ay, Driscoll, it is sharp practice, my boy; but we 're just now in a land where sudden death dispenses with a coroner's inquest, and the keenest inquirer would be puzzled whether the fatal bullet came from a Russian rifle or a Croat carbine. Lend me a helping hand here, and I 'll pledge myself that you are well paid for it. Try and dodge me, and I'll back myself to beat you at your own game."

"Here's an order for one of you gentlemen," said an hospital orderly, "coming up to see Lieutenant Conway."

"It is for me," said Driscoll, eagerly; "I'm a relation of his."

"And I am his family chaplain," said Classon, rising; "well go together." And before Driscoll could interpose a word, Paul slipped his arm within the other's and led him away.

CHAPTER XXXII. SHOWING "HOW WOUNDS ARE HEALED"

On a low little bed in a small chamber, once a cell of the Convent, Charles Conway lay, pale, bloodless, and breathing heavily. The surgeon's report of that morning called him "mortally wounded," and several of his comrades had already come to bid him farewell. To alleviate in some measure his sufferings, he was propped up with pillows and cushions to a half-sitting posture, and so placed that his gaze could rest upon the open sea, which lay calm and waveless beneath his window; but even on this his eyes wandered vaguely, as though already all fixity of thought was fled, and that the world and its scenes had ceased to move or interest him. He was in that state of exhaustion which follows great loss of blood, and in which the brain wanders dreamily and incoherently, though ready at any sudden question to arouse itself to an effort of right reason.

A faint, sad smile, a little nod, a gesture of the hand, were tokens that one by one his comrades recorded of their last interview with him; and now all were gone, and he was alone. A low murmur of voices at his door bespoke several persons in earnest conversation, but the sounds never reached the ears of the sick man.

"He spoke of making a will, then?" said Classon, in a whisper.

"Yes, sir," replied the sergeant. "He asked several times if there was not some one who could take down his wishes in writing, and let him sign it before witnesses."

"That will do admirably," said Paul, pushing his way into the room, closely followed by Terry Driscoll. "Ah, Driscoll," said Paul, unctuously, "if we were moralists instead of poor, frail, time-serving creatures as we are, what a lesson might we not read in the fate of the poor fellow that lies there!"

"Ay, indeed!" sighed out Terry, assentingly.

"What an empty sound 'my Lord' is, when a man comes to that!" said Paul, in the same solemn tone, giving, however, to the words "my Lord" a startling distinctness that immediately struck upon the sick man's ear.

Conway quickly looked up and fixed his eyes on the speaker.

"Is it all true, then,--am I not dreaming?" asked the wounded soldier, eagerly.

"Every word of it true, my Lord," said Classon, sitting down beside the bed.

"And I was the first, my Lord, to bring out the news," interposed Terry.

"'Twas myself found the papers in an old farm-house, and showed them to Davenport Dunn."

"Hush, don't you see that you only confuse him?" whispered Classon, cautiously.

"Dunn, Dunn," muttered Conway, trying to recollect. "Yes, we met at poor Kellett's funeral,--poor Kellett! the last of the Albueras!"

"A gallant soldier, I have heard," chimed in Classon, merely to lead him on.

"Not a whit more so than his son Jack. Where is he?--where is Jack?"

None could answer him, and there was a silence of some minutes.

"Jack Kellett would never have deserted me in this way if he were alive and well," muttered Conway, painfully. "Can no one give me any tidings of him?"

Another silence ensued.

"And I intended he should have been my heir," said Conway, dreamily.

"How strangely it sounds, to be sure, the notion of inheriting anything from Charley Conway! How little chance there was a month or two back that my best legacy might not have been a shabrack or a pair of pistols; and now I'm the Lord Viscount--what is it?--Viscount--"

A wild gust of wind--one of those swooping blasts for which the Euxine is famous--now struck the strong old walls, and made the massive casements rattle. The sick man started at the noise, which recalled at once the crash of the battle-field, and he cried out vigorously, "Move up, men,--move up; keep together, and charge! Charge!" and with bent-down head and compressed lips he seemed like one prepared to meet a murderous onslaught. A sudden faintness succeeded to this excitement, and he lay back weak and exhausted. As he fell back, a letter dropped from his hand to the ground. Classon speedily caught it up, and opened it. He had, however, but time to read the opening line, which ran thus--"My dearest Charley, our cause is all but won--"

"From his mother," interposed Driscoll, leaning over his shoulder.

"Ay, my mother," murmured Conway, whose ear, preternaturally acute from fever, caught the word; "she will see that my wishes are carried out, and that all I leave behind me goes to poor Jack."

"We'll take care of that, sir," said Classon, blandly; "only let us know what it is you desire. We have no other object here than to learn your wishes."

With all the alacrity of one accustomed to such emergencies, Paul drew a small portfolio from his pocket provided with all materials for writing, and arrayed them neatly before him; but already the sick man had dropped off into a sleep, and was breathing heavily.

"That box must contain all the papers," said Classon, rising stealthily and crossing the room; "and see, the key is in the lock!" In a moment they were both on the spot, busily ransacking the contents. One glance showed their suspicions to be correct: there were heaps of legal documents, copies of deeds, extracts of registries, with innumerable letters of explanation. They had no time for more than the most hurried look at these; in fact, they turned in terror at every movement, to see if the sick man had recovered from his swoon.

"This is all; better than I ever looked for," said Classon. "Fill your pockets with them: we must divide the spoil between us, and be off before he rallies."