"My only baby!" said McIntosh, with a smile. He was sinking fast, but he
continued to talk as long as breath remained. I waited for the end;
knowing that, in six cases out of ten a dying man calls for his mother. He
turned on his side and said--
"Say how it came into your possession. No one will believe you, but my
name, at least, will live. You will treat it brutally, I know you will.
Some of it must go; the public are fools and prudish fools. I was their
servant once. But do your mangling gently--very gently. It is a great
work, and I have paid for it in seven years' damnation."
His voice stopped for ten or twelve breaths, and then he began mumbling a
prayer of some kind in Greek. The native woman cried very bitterly.
Lastly, he rose in bed and said, as loudly as slowly--"Not guilty, my
Lord!"
Then he fell back, and the stupor held him till he died. The native woman
ran into the Serai among the horses, and screamed and beat her breasts;
for she had loved him.
Perhaps his last sentence in life told what McIntosh had once gone
through; but, saving the big bundle of old sheets in the cloth, there was
nothing in his room to say who or what he had been.
The papers were in a hopeless muddle.
Strickland helped me to sort them, and he said that the writer was either
an extreme liar or a most wonderful person. He thought the former. One of
these days, you may be able to judge for yourselves. The bundle needed
much expurgation and was full of Greek nonsense, at the head of the
chapters, which has all been cut out.
If the thing is ever published, some one may perhaps remember this story,
now printed as a safeguard to prove that McIntosh Jellaludin and not I
myself wrote the Book of Mother Maturin.