y 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."

Driscoll obeyed with readiness. His eager eye scrutinized hastily so
much as he could catch of the import of each document; but he did not
venture, by any attempt at selection, to excite Classon's suspicions.

"If we cannot make our own terms after this night's work, Driscoll,
my name is not Paul Classon. The poor fellow here will soon be past
tale-telling, even if he were able to see us. There you have dropped a
large parchment."

"I' ll put it in the pocket of my cloak," said the other, in a whisper;
while he added, still more stealthily, "would n't you swear that he was
looking at us this minute?"

Classon started. The sick man's eyes were open, and their gaze directed
towards them; while his lips, slightly parted, seemed to indicate a
powerless attempt to speak.

"No," said Classon, in a scarcely audible whisper; "that is death."

"I declare I think he sees us," muttered Driscoll.

"And if he does, man, what signifies it? He's going where the knowledge
will little benefit him. Have you everything safe and sure now? There,
button your coat well up; we must start at once."

"May I never! if I can take my eyes off him," said Driscoll, trembling.

"You had better take yourself off bodily, my worthy friend; there's
no saying who might chance to come in upon us here. Is not that a
signet-ring on his finger? It would only be a proper attention to carry
it to his mother, Driscoll." There was a half-sarcasm about the tone of
this speech that made it sound strangely ambiguous, as, stooping down,
he proceeded to take off the ring.

"Leave it there,--leave it there! it will bring bad luck upon us,"
murmured Driscoll, in terror.

"There is no such bad luck as not to profit by an opportunity,"
whispered Classon, as he tried, but in vain, to withdraw the ring.
A sharp, half-suppressed cry suddenly escaped him, and Driscoll
exclaimed,--

"What is it? What's the matter?"

"Look, and see if he has n't got hold of me, and tightly too."

The affected jocularity of his tone accorded but ill with the expression
of pain and fright so written upon his features, for the dying man had
grasped him by the wrist, and held him with a grip of iron.

"That's what they call a dead m